


we, too, have teeth

by fatal_drum, TwoDrunkenCelestials



Series: we, too, have teeth [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Branding, Cannibalism, Captivity, Eye Trauma, F/M, Gore, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Selkie Jonathan Sims, Selkie Martin Blackwood, Starvation, Trans Jonathan Sims, Trans Martin Blackwood, archivist sasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoDrunkenCelestials/pseuds/TwoDrunkenCelestials
Summary: Four years ago, Martin disappeared from London without a trace. Elias told them he transferred to another archive. As Sasha and Tim discover, the truth is much worse.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Jonathan Sims/Elias Bouchard, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Mikaele Salesa, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Series: we, too, have teeth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155779
Comments: 169
Kudos: 254





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We've been working on this one for quite a while, and we're so pleased to finally bring you this story. The current draft is over 20k, so it's going to be a meaty one. 
> 
> Please read the content warnings carefully. These are subject to change. Individual chapters will include their own content warnings in the endnotes. 
> 
> Many thanks to cuttooth for their fantastic beta job. <3

_23 September 2016_

Martin holds a bite of meat to Jon’s lips, watching him take it delicately between his sharp teeth. His canines lightly graze Martin’s thumb, making him shiver. They've hunted this meal themselves, which gives him more satisfaction than any restaurant fare could ever provide. Even better is the knowledge that he's providing for his mate. 

“This might be the best meal I’ve ever had,” Jon admits, kissing his fingertips. "Certainly better than they ever gave us willingly."

“We’ve earned it,” Martin says, stroking Jon's cheek. He would do anything to make Jon happy, to see the flush of pleasure across his cheeks. 

“How much longer before we can leave?”

Martin considers. "A day at the most. That should give me enough time to secure our future."

Jon draws him into a tight embrace, kissing him gently. 

"All I need is you and my skin," he says, nuzzling Martin's cheek. "And her."

"We're going to get her, " Martin promises. "And then we're going to have everything we could ever want. They _owe_ it to us."

Jon's expression darkens. "That they do."

He chews his next bite with vicious satisfaction. There's more where that came from. 

* * *

_28 September 2016_

Elias hasn't been seen since he left work Friday. It's Tuesday now, and Sasha can see the worry written plain across Rosie's round face as she hands them a card with Elias’s address written in her narrow, precise hand.

“We’re glad to do it, but wouldn’t the police normally handle that sort of thing?”

“Mr. Bouchard wouldn’t want that sort of fuss,” Rosie says, wringing her hands.

“I’m sure the old boss just had a wild weekend,” Tim says with a wink. “We’ll have him back in no time.”

Sasha can see beneath the forced brightness of his smile, knows he’s as worried as she is. They may not exactly _like_ Elias, but as far as Sasha knows, their boss has clocked in exactly fifteen minutes early every day for the last twenty years. He rarely takes holidays, and when he does, it’s with several months’ notice. Until now, she would have said Elias missing work without notice was as likely as him showing up without a three-piece suit: possible, but incredibly difficult to imagine. 

The address Rosie provides is just minutes from the Institute,in a fashionable part of Chelsea that Sasha could never dream of affording. It suits Elias to a T, though she has no idea how he affords it on the Institute’s salary. 

“Maybe he married rich,” Tim jokes. “Turned one of those donors into a sugar daddy.”

Sasha wrinkles her nose as she unlocks the door. “Better not let him hear you say that,”

“It’s what he gets for skiving off work.”

She knocks on the heavy oak door and waits. They both look at each other, anxiety growing as the silence continues. After a long moment, she tries the handle, expecting it to be locked, but the door swings open without even a creak. They stare in at the immaculate foyer with its tasteful cream carpets and magazine-quality staging. A vase by the door holds flowers that are almost completely wilted. The marble surface beneath it is littered with dead petals. Sasha frowns, biting her lip.

"Elias?" she calls. "Anyone home?"

"Stay back. I'll go in." Tim says quietly.

"Oh, sod off," Sasha says, shoving him in the shoulder. 

Together they walk down the empty hallway. The house is eerily quiet, with that unlived-in feeling Sasha recognizes from watering her friends’ plants while they were on holiday. She can’t help but feel they’re intruding; technically, she supposes, they are. Tim appears to feel the same, keeping his steps light and soundless, as if someone were sleeping in the next room. Everything seems ordinary, if slightly vacant. 

Then she sees the sitting room.

“Oh, my god,” she says softly. Tim grips her arm. 

The furniture is completely destroyed, the cushions shredded and streaked with blood. Shards of glass and porcelain are scattered everywhere, remnants of curios she can’t identify. It’s as if someone has tried to destroy every trace of Elias’s existence in the room. Sasha’s heart races as she takes in the ruined room. 

“Should we...phone the police?”

Sasha shakes her head, even though he’s probably right. The answer to Elias’s absence is somewhere in this house, she _knows_ it. She can feel it beckoning to her. The idea of leaving, of letting someone else solve the mystery, rankles her. 

The deeper into the house they go, the more destruction they encounter. The only place that isn’t littered with torn glass and shredded books is a small side room. There’s no furniture or even storage boxes, only a pile of blankets and pillows. It’s the only area where nothing is torn or stained. Despite being arranged in a messy heap on the floor, the bedding looks clean and well kept. There’s a strange, lingering scent in the air, like sea salt.

She can’t imagine Elias sleeping in such a place. She can feel the pieces settling in her mind, but she can’t tell how they fit. 

As they approach the kitchen, an overpowering odor of rot fills Sasha’s nostrils. They both gag when Tim opens the door. The kitchen is the worst room by far, filled with the smells of cooked meat and rotting flesh, the surfaces covered in blood and what looks like the remnants of— 

"Is—is that a _hand?"_ Tim asks, utterly horrified.

Sasha steps closer, bending to inspect the object. It's not intact—there are chunks that appear to have been chewed off—but it is, unmistakably, a human hand. 

The hand is too large to be Elias's. 

“We should stop,” Tim says backing away. “This is a crime scene. The police...”

Sasha turns to inspect a half-empty plate. There are only scraps left, of something that looks like roasted pork.

“They’ll want to seal it up,” she says. “We might never know what happened.”

Tim bites his lip. She can see him wavering.

“We’ve already come this far. What’s the harm in waiting a few more minutes to call them?”

Tim doesn’t get his mobile out. 

"Let’s keep looking," she says, turning to leave the kitchen.

* * *

_f11 August 2012_

Martin's head is spinning as Elias and his husband push him down the stairs. He thinks he remembers Elias calling him Peter, but his mind feels soft and mushy. He barely remembers leaving the Institute, or anything else after Elias slid the needle into his arm with a smug smile. He feels untethered from his body, like he's watching from miles away while they handle him like a doll. Occasionally one of them will fondle him through his clothing. He wants to scream, but his throat won't work.

Finally they make it to the bottom—or maybe they've been there the whole time. Peter holds Martin against his broad chest as Elias strips him, ignoring his weak struggles. He can barely hold his head up. Something closes around his neck, and his instincts scream for him to claw it off, but his body feels limp and useless.

Elias's voice sounds like it's echoing through water, garbled and indistinct. Martin knows he should listen, that it’s probably important, but his mind is as weak and useless as his body; he can’t make sense of the words. It's with a sickening ease that they maneuver him a cramped, cold space. He's still trying vainly to move when the metal door slams shut. 

For a moment, all he feels is relief that he's they've stopped touching him. Then his drug-addled mind recognizes the cold steel for what it is: a cage. He can’t help the terrified little sound he makes. 

He's trapped. In a cold, cramped cage, too small to turn around in. His heart is racing so loud in his ears that it drowns out the other noises. 

Rough hands reach through the bars to force his face up, make him look into the eyes of his boss and now kidnapper. 

"Now, you behave," Elias says, his voice thick with false kindness. 

Martin's eyes squeeze shut, and when he opens them, minutes or hours later, Elias is gone. His head aches, and his mouth is cotton-dry. The cage is so small he has to hunch over, and his shoulders press against the sides. He grips the cage door and rattles it as hard as he can. It doesn't move. 

Someone makes a low, keening sound. It's probably him. 

"Stop that," someone says.

In the low light of the room he sees a man, scarred, wearing a scrunched expression. He holds something out for Martin. Martin flinches back, his earlier panic returning. He licks his lips, trying to wet them. Words refuse to leave Martin's throat, no smart rebuttal or cutting remark. Just another half-whimper.

The man pushes something plastic through the bars of the cage. Martin's panicked brain takes a minute to recognize it as a thermos.

"It's tea. Cold, but it's all I have." The man's voice is low and melodic.

"No more drugs!" Martin shouts, trying to shove himself further into the corner. 

"It's not drugged!" The man's eyes are wide and fearful. "Please, keep your voice down. You don't want them to come back, do you?"

"Is that a threat?" 

"No!" the man snaps. "Look, I'm on your side. And trust me, nothing good will happen if they come back."

Martin's hand inches forward, and he snatches the thermos. He opens it, smelling it. He still doesn't trust this man, but his throat is so parched, and that fear scent, so strong, isn't something that can be easily faked. 

Martin licks his lips once, twice, before swallowing the tea. It's bitter, the chill sapping it of any comfort, but his throat is parched. He drinks it too fast, coughing violently for a moment as he tries to catch his breath. 

"What—what will they do if they come back?"

Martin is afraid to ask, but does anyway. He's half afraid of the answer, even if it will make things easier in the long run. Easier to plan an escape.

The man hesitates, looking pained. 

"I...I hope I'm wrong," he says quietly. "I want very badly to be wrong."

Martin's heart sinks. "About what?"

The man swallows, looking at the wall behind Martin as he says, "I think...they're going to claim you. Mark you. Use you. And if you fight, they'll make it hurt."

Martin's hands are shaking so hard he nearly drops the thermos. He sets it down, sickened.

The defeat in the man's voice is palpable, and Martin can see the subtle shake of his shoulders. He still wants to throw up. He tries to distract himself instead, focusing his attention on the other man.

That's when the little details come into focus. They make Martin even more ill as he takes them in. His body is littered with scars. Some look like burns, others like carved designs. Over his heart is a brand with an abstract design Martin can’t make out. The tattoo on his hip is elegant, lovely, the image of a half dressed woman with what looks like a seal tail. It reminds him of the old nautical tattoo his father used to have.

Wait. _Wait._ A seal?

He swallows back bile. "You...you're a selkie, aren't you? They have your skin, too."

"Yes." 

The reply, bitter and quietly resigned, slips into the air between them, filling it with both an old and new sense of despair. Martin can see how his shoulders shake, smell the saltwater tears of the other selkie. 

This is going to be him, Martin realises. Skinless and nearly broken, held hostage by two people holding a piece of his very soul captive. Martin's heart aches, the pain so sharp. 

Martin forces his eyes away from the scars. “I’m so sorry,” he says softly. 

"What for?" The man looks so genuinely confused that Martin's heart aches. 

"Because that's awful. Everything about this is awful, and you don't deserve it. And I thought I knew Elias! I worked with him for years, and I never suspected..."

"This isn't your fault! He—he's clever, pretending to be harmless, all while hiding the worst of intentions. It's—it's how I was caught. And—it's my fault you're here."

The man’s hands clench tight, until the scent of blood fills the air from where his nails have dug into his palms. Martin wants to reach out, to smooth his hands open until he stops hurting himself, but he’s afraid, and doesn't want to push the man.

"I—I was a bad pet. I, I let them get bored, and they threatened to bring someone else. They wouldn’t have brought you if I had been good!” 

"You don't know that," Martin says quietly. "And unless you're the one who stole my skin, I can't say this is your fault. It's them."

Martin wonders if he'll end up as broken and scarred as the selkie in front of him, and shudders.

"They told me it was my fault. They told me that they liked me so much they wanted another pet. They liked how I broke, how I submitted to them, and decided that another would be fun. See if they could breed us."

The man's whispers are fervent, and he's still shaking. Martin reaches out and offers a hand, careful not to startle the other. 

"Hey, hey, calm down. We...we can find a way out of here. I know it."

Martin tries to sound more confident than he feels, but his nerves betray him as his voice subtly shakes. The drugs are still partially in his system, and are a reminder of just how serious these two seem to be about keeping him.

"You can't promise that," the man says flatly. 

"Look," Martin says impulsively, "what's your name?"

"Jon," the other selkie whispers. 

"Jon," Martin echoes. "Jon, I promise you. Whatever happens, we're going to get out of here." 

"I hope for your sake that we do," Jon says softly.

"For both of us," Martin repeats. 

Jon looks down, finally seeming to notice Martin's hand. He hesitates for a moment before grasping it. His skin is the only point of warmth in the cold room. Martin realizes he's shivering. 

"You're cold," Jon says, frowning. 

"It's fine," Martin says, doing his best to curl around himself.

"Come here."

Martin huddles against the front of the cage, and Jon presses his narrow body as close as possible. Martin's eyes water at how good it feels, the warmth of Jon's skin the only comfort in this situation. Once the tears come, they won't seem to stop, running down his face until his entire body shakes with sobs. Jon strokes his hand, murmuring soothing nonsense until Martin's exhausted himself. They fall asleep pressed together, as close as they can get with the bars between them.

* * *

_28 September 2016_

The mess and blood and wreckage is the worst in the master bedroom; the bed and walls are ruined, paintings ripped down and torn into pieces. The bed frame is broken, the splintered pieces scattered. Sasha tries to imagine the strength it must have taken. It looks like monsters have come through the house, and apparently found what they were seeking.

She can hear Tim opening a few drawers, murmuring to himself. 

"What's this?" he says, and Sasha looks up in time to see him open a carved wooden box. A moment later, he flinches back as if burned. He holds a photograph, his mouth agape as he stares down at it. She follows his gaze. 

It's Martin. Sasha can scarcely believe it, seeing him like this, but it’s him, kneeling naked and cowed, with his long curls spilling over his shoulders. A thick leather collar encircles his neck, deep blue, with matching cuffs. Elias is standing over him with the leash in his hand. His expression is triumphant. 

Her stomach churns. This doesn't make any sense. No one's seen Martin in _years._

"He—he was supposed to be in Poland," Tim says weakly.

But they never heard it from _Martin._ Never understood why he left without saying goodbye. 

Now Sasha thinks she knows.

"There's...there's _more."_ Tim says, going back to the drawer. He sounds gutted, and pulls out a stack of photographs. Pictures of a dark-eyed man huddled against Martin’s side. Of the two of them curled together in a pile of blankets like the one in the side room, with what look like fresh brands burned into their flesh. 

The photographs get worse. So, _so_ much worse.

Sasha is still missing something, a key piece of the puzzle. Below the bubbling horror, she _knows_ it. Something more.

"Why?" She whispers, "Why would he do this?" It gets under her skin in an awful, dreadful way, like bugs crawling under her skin, or shadows closing in at the edge of her senses.

"I..." Tim swallows hard. "This doesn't look consensual."

Sasha shakes her head. She should stop looking, but something drives her to turn over the next photo anyway, even as tears well in her eyes. 

Like all the other photos, Martin is naked. In this one, he’s kneeling at the feet of a man she doesn’t recognize. The man is broad and muscular, with graying hair. His large hand lays heavily on Martin's shoulder. Martin's expression radiates quiet misery. 

In another photo, Elias sits with the broad-shouldered man. They each have some sort of fur draped over their laps, with grey and black spots. Like a seal, she thinks. They're holding the skins like hunting trophies. 

The last photo she sees is a photo of the dark-eyed man from the nest, the one who'd been curled up with Martin like a lover. He looks...different, somehow. His features are mostly the same, but sharper, wilder. He snarls at the camera, his teeth long and pointed, like a cat's. His hands are curled into claws as he leaps at the camera, held back only by the thick chains binding him to the wall. His eyes stare at her from the photo, dark and piercing. His body is covered in bruises

"What the _fuck,"_ Tim says, looking so close to retching, "What the fuck, Sasha. This—this is— _what the fuck."_

He drops the photos like they burn to the touch, and they drift to the ground. Tim is out of the room an instant after. She can hear him vomiting in the hall. When he returns, his face is filled with rage and disgust. 

"All this time, Sasha! They had Martin all this time. Martin and—and this other man, whoever he is.” 

Sasha takes hold of his hand, squeezing tightly. "We had no way of knowing."

Tears spill down Tim's face. He wipes them away angrily, though he keeps hold of her hand. 

"I knew he wouldn't leave without saying goodbye! We were _friends._ But I was too stupid and self absorbed to look for him."

"We wouldn't have found him. And we wouldn't have thought to look here. Elias had us all fooled."

Had there been warning signs? Some signal that Elias was a predator? Honestly she's never thought of Elias as more than a slightly useless boss. As far as she knew, he never even noticed Martin at work. 

Something catches her eye in one of the photos. A brick wall, utterly unlike anything she's seen in the house. A basement, she thinks. 

Certainty fills her: whatever they're looking for, it's in the basement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The stairs stretch far into the darkness, seemingly forever. The scent of blood wafting up from the basement is nearly overwhelming. It takes everything in Sasha to take that first step, and each after only becomes easier, driven by anger and the need to know._
> 
> _Her stomach roils when she sees what's waiting for them at the bottom._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a doozy. Chapter warnings are at the bottom. 
> 
> We have updated the chapter count. The story outline hasn't changed, but we decided to split a chapter into two sections because it was getting long. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who read and commented on the last chapter, and to cuttooth for betaing! 
> 
> Look out for chapter 3 next Sunday!

_31 December 2010_

“Champagne?” Tim asks, plucking a flute from the tray. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sasha replies. 

“You look stunning tonight, as always,” he says as he takes his own glass. It’s true: the red dress she’s wearing fits her like a glove, highlighting every curve. Her dark curls are swept into a crown on top of her head, just slightly tousled. His hands ache to take out the pins and let it all tumble down around his hands.

“You clean up pretty well, too,” Sasha admits. “Looks a bit like you’re at a funeral, though.”

Tim coughs, and carefully doesn’t mention that she’s right. Sasha pauses, then looks at Tim more closely. Then, it seems to click. Tim scrambles to change the subject. 

“Let’s toast,” Tim suggests. “To another year closer to you running this place!”

“Don’t let Elias hear you say that,” she says, laughing and clinking her glass against his. 

“Oh, but it’s true. You’re one of the best researchers here. If you’re not running your own department in a few years, I’ll eat my hat.”

“You’re not _wearing_ a hat.”

“Well, no, it wouldn’t go with the suit, now, would it?”

Sasha rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the hint of a smile. 

“Make yourself useful and get me some canapés, then, future underling,” she orders. 

“Yes, _ma’am!”_

He weaves his way through the crowd until he finds the hors d'oeuvres, grabbing a plate. He’s trying to balance his champagne with the plate when he spots a freckled, half-familiar face next to the charcuterie. 

“Hey! M...Marvin, right?”

His co-worker’s face falls. “It’s Martin. Am I in your way?”

“Shit, sorry, of course it’s Martin. From the library, right? You helped me find the treatise by Smirke!”

Martin smiles, and it’s like turning on a lamp in a dark room. “You’re from research, aren’t you?”

“Timothy Stoker, at your service. I’d shake your hand, but they’re both a bit full at the moment.” 

Martin sticks out his hand, miming a handshake. Tim raises his glass of champagne in salute. 

“Martin Blackwood.”

“You look bored. Are you here by yourself?”

Martin blushes slightly. “I—yeah. No plus-one for me this year.”

“That won’t do. Why don’t you come hang out with me and Sasha? We don’t have plus-ones either, and you look like you could use the company.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Martin says hesitantly. 

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you to come. Besides, Sasha will probably be running this place by this time next year, might as well cozy up.” Tim winks, flashing his most winning smile. 

It works. Martin grabs a croissant and a few slices of fruit before saying, “Lead the way, then, Mr. Stoker.” 

They’re halfway back to Sasha when Tim hears an _oof_ behind him. He turns to see a broad figure between him and Martin. 

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry!” Martin says, backing away. 

Tim is fairly average in height, with Martin a few inches taller. This man makes them both look small. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick and muscular. Tim watches the man give Martin a slow once-over. Tim could swear he even sees him inhale, like he’s taking in Martin’s scent. The room feels uncomfortably cold despite Tim's stuffy suit. 

“No problem,” the man says cheerfully. “Are you _alone_ here?”

Martin’s cheeks go red, and he stammers, “I—well not exactly—”

Tim grabs Martin firmly by the arm. “We’ve actually got somewhere to be. Have a good night.” 

He swears he can feel the weight of the man’s eyes on their retreating backs. 

“Thank you,” Martin whispers once he’s been dragged away. 

“That guy was giving me the creeps. He wasn’t exactly subtle.”

They make it back to Sasha without further incident. 

“Who’s this?” she asks, accepting her plate. “Eww, you know I hate olives.”

“Those are for me, thanks,” Tim plucks a bleu-cheese stuffed olive and pops it into his mouth. “Ahh. Delicious. This is Martin, master librarian. He saved my arse a few months ago.”

“I’m not technically a librarian,” Martin admits. “Just an assistant.”

“You know your way around the stacks better than most of the real librarians.”

“Th-thank you,” Martin says, his face growing even pinker. It’s pretty cute. “Erm...what’s it like in research?”

Sasha gives a dramatic shudder. “Definitely beats Artefact Storage.” 

“What’s so bad about Artefact Storage?” he asks, brows raised. 

“Well, let me tell you…” 

Sasha has a gift for making the most horrifying events sound retrospectively hilarious. She describes books with murderous curses; old cages and handcuffs that locked on their own; haunted puppets; and worse. By the end they’re all laughing so hard they’re starting to attract strange looks from the donors. 

“Whoops,” Tim says unrepentantly. “Forgot fun isn’t allowed at the Jimmy Magma Institute.”

Sasha snorts loudly. “Elias is going to _hear_ you someday.”

“Let him. I think the Institute could use a rebranding. He won’t take my suggestions for a haunted gift shop.”

Martin giggles, then catches himself and tries to force himself a straight face. It doesn’t work.

“Want to blow this popsicle stand?” Tim asks, draping his arm over Martin’s and Sasha’s shoulders. 

Martin flushes pink. “I—where would we go?”

“Wherever we want. The city is our oyster.”

“So we’re...going from the popsicle stand to the...oyster.” Sasha says slowly. 

“I’ve had a _lot_ of champagne,” Tim says by way of explanation. “How about it, Martin?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, smiling widely. “I’d like that.”

The next morning, Tim’s hangover is epic, but the night is more than worth it. 

* * *

_12 August 2012_

Martin wakes to the cage door opening. It’s his only warning before a massive hand closes over his arm, dragging him out painfully. Peter lifts him before he’s awake enough to struggle, strapping him to a long wooden table. The straps are thick leather, closing around his wrists and waist and ankles with an alarming finality. Martin’s heart races.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” Elias says, eyes glowing with smug pleasure. 

“I’d say it’s a surprise party, but it’s not my birthday,” Martin snipes. Jon shoots him a worried look, but he refuses to be cowed. 

Peter's gaze rakes up and down Martin's body with obvious pleasure. "We've got a live one, don't we?" Martin suppresses a shudder.

"You're here because it isn't safe for you in the wild," Elias explains, reaching down to pat Martin's cheek. Martin tries to snap, but Elias simply withdraws with a laugh. "You're only proving my case. How can I let a feral creature like you go free? It's not safe for anyone." 

"I'll show you feral," Martin snarls. 

"Selkies are meant to be owned. Why else would your biology make you subordinate to whoever holds your pelt? You're really quite fortunate that we were the ones to claim you. You could have wound up on Salesa's ship, servicing his entire crew. In fact, that option is still on the table, should your performance prove unsatisfactory."

"Please, Elias, he'll be good!" Jon cries, eyes wild with panic. "I'll make sure of it. Please, Elias, don't send him away."

Martin traces the framework of scars and brands on Jon's skin with his eyes. He'd assumed they were all from Peter and Elias. Now he's not so sure. 

"Now, Martin, I'm sure you know that communication is the essence of a successful relationship," Peter says cheerfully. "Or perhaps you don't. You've never had much in the way of relationships, have you?"

Martin flushes, looking away. It's not his fault his mother preferred to keep them away from outsiders. 

"So we've decided to make this easy for you, and set clear expectations for your performance." Elias flashes him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The first thing to remember is that you are _ours._ As much as this house, and this table. We expect you to remember that at all times. It will make the rest much simpler for you."

Peter continues for his husband. "As our property, we expect deference and obedience. You will always address us by name, or as Owner. You will kneel in our presence unless ordered otherwise. Everything you receive, be it food, water, or little indulgences, will come from our hands, and we can take them away at any point."

"You'll have free access to Jon, of course, unless you misbehave."

Martin expects Jon to balk at being treated like an amenity, but instead, he looks almost relieved.

"Now, Martin. Have you accepted your place in this household, or do you require further instruction?" Elias asks. 

"Fuck you," Martin growls. 

Peter grins. "I was hoping you'd say that. I'll get the kit."

"No!" Jon cries, clutching Peter's thigh. "Please, Peter, he doesn't mean it, you don't—" 

Peter shoves Jon away, letting the selkie fall in a heap. Jon stares entreatingly at Elias. 

"Now, Jon, it's not polite to speak on your mate's behalf. This is a lesson he needs to learn on his own." Elias locks eyes with Martin. His gaze is as cold as stones at the bottom of a river. "He's chosen to learn it the hard way."

"I'm not his mate! I'm not anyone's mate." Martin argues. Jon flinches, and he feels a rush of guilt. It's not Jon's fault they're in this situation. Jon’s the kind of person Martin can see himself choosing on his own, if Jon weren’t miles out of his league. 

Peter returns with a small, ornate wooden box and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He pours the alcohol onto Martin’s inner thigh, making him yelp at the cold sensation, before wiping the skin with gauze pads. 

“We don’t want this to get infected, after all,” Peter says, patting his hip fondly. Martin flinches in his restraints. 

Peter opens the box, pulling out a device that looks like a pen, but with a tapered wire tip, before putting on a pair of black nitrile gloves. He pulls the skin of Martin’s thigh taut before holding the device against his skin. 

“Now, stay still,” he warns, before turning on the pen. 

The cautery pen sears his flesh, and Martin screams, eyes welling with tears. Peter hums as if Martin were making conversation, dragging the burning tip across his skin. The smell of charring flesh fills the room. 

Elias brushes his thumb across Martin’s cheek, wiping away his tears. 

“Remember, Martin, this was your decision. This could have been much easier for you, but you insisted on the hard way, didn’t you? Tell me, is your pride worth this ordeal?”

Martin keeps his mouth firmly shut, glaring at Elias through the film of tears. Peter draws another line nearly on top of the first, and the pain grows exponentially, until he’s sobbing helplessly.

“F-fuck you. My f-friends will know I’m gone, and th-they’ll find me!” he manages through the tears. 

Elias brushes Martin’s hair from his face. “Oh, pet. You don’t _have_ friends. You only have us. When I told told them you’d left the Institute, they didn’t even ask where you’d gone. No one’s looking for you.”

“You’re lying!” Martin cries, though doubt creeps into him. His friends wouldn’t just accept that he’d leave. Would they?

The thought vanishes as Peter traces over a particularly sensitive spot, making him wail. Peter pets his hip in a mockery of comfort. A low whine catches his attention, and he looks down to see Jon kneeling at Elias’s feet, his own eyes gleaming with unshed tears. 

“You see?” Elias says, raising a brow. “Your obstinance doesn’t only hurt you. Your suffering pains Jon. He’s such a fragile creature.”

Martin doesn’t think that’s true. He thinks Jon has been strong for far too long. The idea that Jon could hurt so much, and still spare empathy for Martin, is overwhelming. 

“I-it’s okay—” Martin chokes out. “I’m f—” 

He stops, crying out in pain as Peter presses down hard. 

“Don’t forget that this is a punishment, pet,” Peter reminds him sternly.

Martin looks down at Jon. Elias has a firm hand on the back of his neck. Jon looks like he might leap to Martin’s aid if it weren’t for the tangible reminder of Elias’s ownership. 

The branding seems to last for hours. By the end, he’s shaking and swearing, and his inner thigh feels like Peter’s injected magma beneath the skin, making it throb and burn. Peter pats the brand proudly, ignoring Martin’s pained hiss. He tosses a small glass jar to Jon. 

“Now, pet, we’ll need you to take good care of your mate, and that means keeping his brand nice and clean. This should help prevent any mishaps.” Peter pets Jon’s hair as if he were an animal. Jon’s eyes, however, are fixed on Martin’s brand. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes. 

Elias cups Martin’s cheek. “You can make this easier on yourself, you know.” His fingers trail down before he slips two of them between Martin’s lips, and Martin instinctively knows what he wants: he sucks them gently, running his tongue against the pads. He knows he’s succeeded when Elias shivers. 

“Good boy,” he says, clearly pleased. “Now, I think it’s time you and your mate spent some quality time together.”

Once Peter and Elias have left, Jon unbuckles the straps from Martin’s wrists and ankles. Martin tries to help, but his hands are shaking too badly.

“Save your strength,” Jon says gently. “I’ll help you.” 

“Wh-why would you help me?” Martin asks, swallowing hard. He immediately regrets it. His throat burns like he’s swallowed seawater. 

“Because I can,” Jon says. “Because you don’t deserve this. Because...this is my fault.”

“It’s not your fault!” Martin shouts. “This is all on them! They hurt you, too!”

Jon opens the stopper on the jar, filling the air with a sharp medicinal odor. “I should have been enough for them. If I’d been able to do what they wanted, then you wouldn’t be here.”

“What did they want?”

“Breeding stock,” Jon says, his gaze going distant for a moment. His arm wraps around himself, one hand on his abdomen. “I wasn’t...enough.” 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says helplessly.

With gentle hands, Jon smooths the ointment onto Martin’s skin, bringing a blessed coolness to the burns. The softness of his touch makes Martin want to cry all over again. He doesn’t want Jon to stop. 

“Can you stand?” Jon asks. 

“I—I think so.” 

“Let me help you.” 

Jon wraps his arm around Martin’s shoulders, helping him sit up and then hobble across the room. Finally he lowers him onto a nest of blankets and pillows. 

“Wait here,” Jon orders. Martin settles against the pillows, breathing in the sea-salt scent of the nest, subtly different than the smell of humans. It makes him feel safer. Jon returns with a roll of gauze and medical tape. His motions are practiced as he bandages Martin’s brand. 

“Th-thank you,” Martin says. He’s not used to being on this side of things. Usually he’s the one taking care of others. Cooking, tending to his mother when she would let him. He can’t remember the last time someone took care of him. Probably when he was a pup, before his father went away. 

“I don’t mind,” Jon says, crouching near the nest. Martin can’t help but notice there’s nowhere else for him to sit or lie down. He’s taken Jon’s nest from him. 

“I—there’s enough room for both of us,” Martin says, scooting over to make room for him. 

Watching Martin carefully, Jon slowly approaches, lying down a few inches away. The distance between them feels painfully large. 

“I—about what I said earlier…” Martin says awkwardly. 

“It’s fine. Honestly, I promise.” Jon says, looking down. 

“I—anyone would be proud to have you as their mate! Me included.” Martin laughs a bit self-consciously. “To be honest, you’re...more than I deserve.”

“That’s not true,” Jon says, brow knit with concern. 

“You don’t know me.”

“You don’t know me, either.”

“I know how you’ve treated me,” Martin says softly. 

“I know…” Jon swallows. “They wouldn’t have stolen you if you weren’t special.” 

Martin shudders. 

“You should rest,” Jon says softly, pulling a blanket over them. “We don’t know when they’ll come back.”

* * *

_28 September 2016_

"Come on," she says, filled with a new determination. Maybe Martin is still there, in the basement. Somewhere in this house of horrors.

Sasha doesn't want to think that Martin had any part of this. Clearly the other prisoner did though, the mere memory of those claws and teeth enough to make her shiver. 

She pulls Tim along, searching for a way downstairs, toward the basement. It's almost as if her feet already know the way, like a string pulling her along.

They find the door in the back of the house. It would be nearly invisible if it weren’t ajar; it’s painted to match the wall. There’s even a framed portrait hanging over it. Sasha takes a moment to inspect the door, as Tim grits out, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Sasha shakes her head, just as surprised. "They know what sort of attention this sort of monstrosity would draw. Look at this."

The stairs stretch far into the darkness, seemingly forever. The scent of blood wafting up from the basement is nearly overwhelming. It takes everything in Sasha to take that first step, and each after only becomes easier, driven by anger and the need to know.

Her stomach roils when she sees what's waiting for them at the bottom. 

Elias and his accomplice are bound and gagged, side by side. Their skin is pale, their faces drawn with pain and covered in blood and sweat. Each has a gaping wound in place of one eye. Elias is missing most of his left leg, the man most of an arm. And between their thighs...

Tim turns away abruptly, and she can hear him being sick. 

Elias makes a noise through the gag. She crouches down and snatches it from his mouth. 

"S-sasha," he says weakly. "Thank god you're here."

"I should leave you to rot," she snaps.

A string of expressions flicker across his face: pained relief, confusion, suspicion, then back to a more innocent, needy expression. 

"We were attacked, Sasha! They broke in and—”

Tim stops in the act of wiping his mouth to snap, _"Bullshit."_

"Tim—" Elias begins, and Tim slams a hand down beside Elias' head, the rage colouring his face.

_"We saw the photos."_

Elias swallows. "I—I know what it looks like, but I assure you, it was all entirely consensual."

“Hurting him, keeping in chains—you call that consensual?” Tim growls. 

“You would be surprised at what Martin enjoys,” Elias says with a smirk. 

"You fucking branded him like an animal!" Sasha snaps.

"He _is_ an animal!" the other man sneers. "That's your mistake."

"An animal? He— _they_ —are human. You two on the other hand..." Tim is pacing like a caged animal, his fists clenching. "Years. You had him for _years."_

Sasha can see it in the line of Tim's body. He wants to hurt these two as much as he wants to find Martin. 

"Where did they go?" Sasha asks, voice cold.

"Why do you want to know?” Elias asks, dropping the pretense. His mouth curls vindictively. “So they can eat you too? They're animals without a conscience, as much as they pretend to _feel_ human emotions." Elias meets Sasha's eyes, "He lied to you. Martin _lied._ He's always been a monster that craves flesh. I was doing my duty and taking him and his filthy mate off the streets."

"Christ, Elias, if you're going to lie to us, at least be convincing," Sasha snaps. 

"What do you think he did with my leg?" Elias asks. 

"Martin wouldn't _hurt_ anyone!" Tim shouts, stopping his pacing to glare at Elias. 

"How well did you even know him? Not nearly as well as we did." Elias sneers. "You hardly noticed when he left."

There's a snarl on Tim's lips. "I noticed! _We_ noticed, Elias! Considering we were given no goodbye, no contact info, no last messages. He was just gone, and all because you kidnapped him and kept him _hostage!"_

"You certainly didn't look very hard for him, did you?”

Sasha bites her lip. In all honesty, she hadn't thought about Martin much at all once the surprise wore off. She'd assumed they just weren't as close friends as they thought. She still thought of him when she saw someone with his curls or his taste in jumpers, but...she'd moved on. 

"You were right to forget him,” Elias says. “There's no use worrying about a vicious little whore _—_ "

Sasha hears the slap before she realizes Tim's crossed the room and backhanded their boss so hard his head jerks to the side. Elias chuckles bitterly.

"Would you have liked a ride, Tim? Upset that you missed your chance to use that sweet cunt?"

Sasha's gaze settles on the other man, his expression twisted into something like amusement. Far too insolent, for all that's going on. The other man pipes in, smiling, _cruel._

"He really liked to be stuffed. Fists, cocks, anything we could give him. You should have heard the noises he and his beastly mate could make."

Tim's furious gaze snaps from Elias to his husband in a heartbeat.

Bile rises in Sasha's throat. "You're _disgusting._ You forced—"

"He begged us for it. Begged us to breed him like the whore he was."

"Because you chained him up and branded him!" Tim shouts. "No one else knows you're here. We should leave you to fucking rot."

Elias' gaze is sharp on Sasha, and she's aware of it burrowing into her like grave worms, writhing under her skin.

"But would you?" Elias doesn't seem to be paying attention to Tim, not really, despite the words being his. "Would you leave us like this? Not when there's a chance to find out more. Perhaps we could arrange an exchange. Satisfy your curiosity in exchange for freeing us."

"What could you possibly tell us that would _help_ your case?" Sasha demands. "And don't you dare try to feed us more details about your disgusting behavior."

"We could _prove_ what they are, what Martin is. Prove that his kind are complete monsters, and not only that, the mere twitches of something _greater."_

Sasha’s hands clench into fists as she tries to bury the curiosity, the burning need to _know._ What happened to Martin is horrifying; she shouldn’t _want_ to know it. But...maybe they can use it to find Martin. To find more proof, and turn Elias and his husband in to those who might be able to do something.

"You're fucking delusional," Tim growls. "You can't—"

"Prove it," Sasha says flatly. 

Tim stops. "Sash, you can't be _—_ "

"Prove it, Elias. Prove it, and we _might_ let you live."

"You've seen the pictures, haven't you? Seen the blood? _Our missing limbs?"_ Elias raises an eyebrow, above the missing eye. The overall effect is stomach-turning. 

"Or do you need me to tell you a bit more plainly, Ms. James? Give you a little...info drop?"

Something in Elias's gaze tells her it's a trap, but she can't make out the outlines of it, and she needs to know. The moment she agrees, her world shifts. 

_She sees Martin, naked and kneeling on the floor, but—changed. His features are more angular, his eyes gleaming with feral intensity. His teeth are much sharper than they have any right to be, and she can see all of them._

_"Hungry, pet?" Elias asks, amused. Martin growls in response, and Elias dangles a strip of meat in front of him. Something tells her it’s not from an animal._

_The world shifts again, and Martin is curled up in a nest of blankets. The smaller man from the photos crouches in front of him, fangs bared. His hands are tipped with claws. He hisses when Elias approaches._

_Another shift. Martin is face-down on a table, his arms bound behind him. Elias's partner is behind him, doing...something...with his hand. Sasha doesn't want to know._

_"What are you?" the man demands._

_"A monster," Martin says, his voice quiet and strained._

_"Who do you belong to?"_

_Martin gasps as the man twists his wrist. "Y-you, Peter."_

_"Do you love me?_

_Martin's voice breaks. "Yes."_

_Another shift. Elias is staring up at Martin, while his mate grips his hair to hold him in place. Martin's face is grim and determined. White-hot pain bursts through Sasha's skull as he carves the eye from his face, slowly and carefully._

When Sasha comes back to herself, she's on her knees, gasping for air. Tim has her by the shoulders, shaking her and yelling. It takes her a moment to make out the words.

_"—fuck did you do, you fucking fuck, I'll kill you—"_

"Tim, I'm fine," she manages.

" _—_ Sasha," Tim turns his attention to Sasha again, "Sasha, you were choking, crying like I'd never seen you! How can you be fine?"

Sasha has to force herself into stillness, force herself to stand up. She schools her face, the lingering pain echoing in her eye. She has to blink several times to confirm that yes, _she_ has her eye.

"Wh-what did you just do to me?" she demands, resisting the urge to touch her eyelid.

Elias simply smirks. "Now do you want to tell me he isn't a monster?"

"That wasn't _real,"_ she snarls.

"I can only give you memories, Ms. James. Not lies. Those are not my domain."

"What are you talking about?" Tim says irritably. 

Elias fixes his gaze on Sasha, ignoring Tim entirely. "Deep down, you know it's true. You've _always_ known there's a deeper truth to the work we do."

It feels like the weight of too many eyes on her, like she's the center of far too many gazes. It reminds her of the statements and the feelings that overwhelm her as she reads them. 

When she tries to grasp the memories again, it's like smoke. The feelings that rush though are strange, muted, only almost right. She's still _missing_ something. 

"T-that doesn't change what you _did_ to them."

"Fed them? Housed them? Kept them safe from those who would hunt them? There are worse things than being a _pet."_ Elias says. "Now for your end of the bargain. Unless you think our deaths will assuage your conscience." 

Sasha considers turning away and shutting the door. Telling Rosie no one had answered, that she hadn't seen anything. Letting them fade away in the basement, with blood loss, infection, and dehydration working to destroy them.

"I _never_ want to see you again," Sasha says vehemently. "And if you _touch_ them, you're dead."

"Strong words for someone who's never held a weapon, but I'll do my best."

"Sasha, Sasha, _Sash."_ Tim says, horror and anger colouring his face, "We can't let them get away with this. With what they did to _Martin."_

"We're _not."_ Sasha insists firmly, meeting Elias' eyes. "There are pictures. There are signs everywhere of what sort of monsters they are. If they live, they can face the consequences for their actions."

Her eyes flick down to the bloody messes between their thighs. "It's not as if they'll be repeating their actions."

She spots a knife a few feet away _—_ likely the one used to mutilate them _—_ and slices through the ropes binding Elias's wrists. She doesn't bother with the rest; she's willing to let him live, but she doesn't have to make it easy. 

"Goodbye, Sasha, Tim," Elias says. "I'll be seeing you."

"You'd better hope you don't," Tim snarls.

"Come on, Tim." Sasha murmurs, turning away from Elias, from the boss she had greatly underestimated. From the monster who could hold not one, but two _—_ two _people—_ hostage for years.

Tim's footsteps behind her are angry, and she doesn't look back, not until they're back upstairs. 

"The _—_ the photos, Sasha. These two assholes are, they're rich, so rich. If they try and hide this..."

She can hear the words within words, the worries he has. She thinks of the memories _—_ confusing as they are _—_ that Elias gave her. How so many monster stories just disappear. That cannot be allowed. Not to Martin or his partner.

They take the photos, every one they can get their hands on, and stuff them into Tim's messenger bag. She snaps her own pictures of the gear in the bedroom. They leave before Elias and his husband can escape the basement. 

"I can't believe he was here all this time," Tim says once they're outside. "Fuck."

"We're going to find them," Sasha promises.

"But what if...what if they don't want to be found. You saw what they did. We should focus on getting Elias arrested."

"We _have_ to find them," Sasha says. Her head feels full, her skull oddly tight, like there's no room for the memories Elias thrust into her mind. "Martin would never hurt us. We have to make sure he's alright. To let him know we care." 

"...you're right," Tim admits. His gaze his pained, tinged with guilt. "I....I don't want to fail him again."

Sasha holds the box of photographs tightly against her chest. They will find Martin.

* * *

_15 August 2012_

Jon’s body aches all over, but Martin’s safe, and that’s what matters. Even if they’re not mated yet, may never be properly mated, every instinct screams for Jon to protect him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Martin says, carefully tucking the blanket around Jon’s shoulders. “I could have handled it.”

“I wanted to,” says Jon. “You didn’t deserve it.”

“Neither did you!” 

Jon disagrees, but he knows he won’t get anywhere with Martin on the subject, so he leaves it. Martin’s expression softens. 

“I...is there anything I can do for you?”

“Something to drink?” Jon asks hopefully.

Martin leaves the nest long enough to fetch a thermos of tea, pouring it into the plastic lid and holding it to Jon’s lips. It’s cold and bitter as always, but Jon drinks greedily. A droplet spills from the corner of his mouth, and Martin gently wipes it away. Jon can’t resist leaning into the touch. 

“I...would you like me to join you? In the nest, I mean.”

“Please,” Jon says softly. 

Martin climbs under the blankets, curling behind Jon and carefully wrapping his arms around him. The movement jostles some of Jon’s injuries, but it’s worth it. Martin’s body is so soft and warm. Jon never wants to move again.

Martin’s hand is on Jon’s upper arm, directly over one of his scars. One of the first Elias gave him.

“This isn’t the worst punishment I’ve endured,” Jon says, placing his hand on top of Martin’s. 

“That doesn’t make it better,” Martin argues.

“Yes, but, I can take more. I don’t want you to have to go through everything I have.”

“Jon…” Martin says, his voice pained. 

“I mean it. I want to protect you.”

Martin’s arms tighten around Jon, pulling him closer. Jon can feel his breath against his ear as he asks, “Earlier...you called me your mate. Did you...mean it?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says tightly. “It was instinct. You don’t have to...become my mate. Not if you don’t want.”

“What if I do want to?”

Jon stops breathing. After a moment, he swallows. “You’d...want that? Despite everything?”

Martin buries his face in Jon’s hair. “We don’t get to choose a lot of things. Where we live. What we eat. Who we...touch. But I can choose _you.”_

Tears prick at Jon’s eyelids. 

“No one’s ever...chosen me before. Not for anything I wanted.” He turns around in Martin’s arms, though his sore muscles protest loudly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure in my life.”

A strange relief washes over Jon, like releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Slowly, he raises his hand to Martin’s cheek, leaning in for a soft, careful kiss. 

“You’re shaking,” Martin says softly. 

“It’s alright,” Jon says. “I have you.”

They fall asleep curled together, Jon’s head pillowed on Martin’s shoulder, their legs entwined. It’s the safest Jon has felt in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: gore, branding, torture, eye trauma, implied miscarriage
> 
> Thank you for reading! We love you! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha and Tim find a lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! Thanks so much for reading and commenting on this work! We really appreciate all your support! Also, as always, many thanks to Tooth for their helpful comments.
> 
> We'll be switching our posting day to Monday, so look for chapter 4 next week!

_ 23 September 2016 _

Jon smells Salesa before he sees him, the trace of gunpowder and sea salt that clings to him. He forces himself to stay still, eyes fixed on the carpet where he kneels, his mate a warm presence beside him. 

He can hear Salesa's heavy footsteps as he approaches. Salesa is a mountain of a man, though he can strike as quickly as a snake when provoked. Jon has provoked him enough times to know. By the time Salesa's boots enter his field of vision, his heart is pounding so loud he's sure everyone will hear it.

Salesa chuckles. "You've really made something of him, haven't you?"

Jon can hear Elias preen as he says, "He only required a strong hand and some time."

Salesa shifts, and Jon watches from the corner of his eye as he lifts Martin's chin to inspect him. "Haven't seen this one before."

Jon grits his teeth, hands curling into fists. Salesa should die for that. He should die for even looking at Martin. If Jon were a better mate, a stronger mate, he'd kill him now.

"Careful now, sweetheart," Jon hears more than sees the sneer and curl of Salesa's mouth. Jon has to force himself to relax his fingers, let his fist go lax. He wants to reach out and touch Martin, reassure him, but they can’t afford the show of weakness. 

"Is something the matter, pet?" Elias asks coolly. His tone makes it clear that he will accept only one answer.

"No, sir." 

"That's our new pet. He's settling in beautifully. Would you believe he was working for the Institute?" Peter laughs, as if this is incredibly quaint. "Now we've got ourselves a mated pair. He broke even easier than Jon did."

Jon feels Martin tense next to him. He spares his mate a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, doing his best to reassure him without being able to touch.

"I almost wish I'd been there to see it," Salesa muses. "Can I have a better look?"

"Help yourself," Peter invites, and Salesa snaps his fingers, gesturing for Martin to stand. Martin obeys, rising to his feet as quickly as he can. Salesa circles his mate like a predator closing in. 

"Very nice," Salesa says, cupping Martin's hip. Martin stiffens. "You two have excellent taste."

Jon barely contains his shudder at the compliment. He cannot help but hate the small jolt of pleasure he feels. He isn't sure if it's because of his pride in Martin, or because Peter and Elias have finally gotten deep enough under his skin.

Jon doesn't know how he's going to survive the night, having the man who captured and tortured him touching his mate the entire night. Peter and Elias are bad enough some days, and strangers are nearly unbearable. 

He won't allow himself to lash out; he cannot.

"Naturally mated, or did you force them together?" Salesa asks curiously, brushing up and over Martin's curves. He pauses just before he sweeps over Martin's breasts. 

Elias chuckles. "They were more than willing. You weren't even in rut the first time, were you, pet?"

"No, sir," Jon says quietly. 

"Selkies," Peter says fondly. "Always gagging for it."

"We do have plans for breeding them. Hopefully their next offspring will display fewer of their more...feral traits."

Jon's blood runs cold. He cannot bear the thought of bringing yet another child into the world, another pup who won't know the freedom of the sea. Or worse, know fully, and have the trauma of having their skin ripped away from them at such a young age etched into their very being. Losing his skin was heart-wrenching enough as an adult. Jon doesn't want to think of what it would do to a child.

He glances up to see the subtle shiver going through his mate when his breasts are cupped and weighted in Salesa's hands, like he's inspecting livestock.

"Decent. They could probably produce enough milk for a child or two, hm?"  Salesa pinches Martin's nipple sharply, making him gasp.  Martin's face has gone pale, his eyes wide and terrified as Salesa paws at him. Peter and Elias rarely let others touch them, but Salesa seems to have free rein.

Jon hears the low growl before he realizes it’s coming from him. The look Elias gives him is cold and sharp as a blade, and Jon flinches back reflexively. 

Salesa seems to be considering something, running his hand over Martin's stomach and down to his cunt. He brushes over his mound, which bears a small brand that matches Jon’s own. Jon can see that Martin is deathly still, his muscles straining to not snap at this stranger.

"I might have just the thing for you," Salesa says, focusing briefly on Jon as his fingers stray lower. "Two things, actually, though one is far more powerful than the other. Both would certainly help...encourage them to breed. Make them beg for it."

Salesa locks eyes with Jon as he sinks a finger inside Martin, drawing a choked gasp from his mate. "Tight for one that's already broken in. Very nice."

"We'd love to hear about them." Elias gestures for Salesa to sit before settling on the sofa next to Peter. "Jon, pour some wine. Martin, make our guest feel welcomed."

“I’m sure he can manage that,” Salesa says with a toothy smile. Jon swallows hard.

* * *

_ 15 August 2012 _

The days after Martin’s branding are quiet. Peter and Elias mostly leave them to their own devices, except to deliver their meals, which come with lingering gazes and the occasional grope. They seem satisfied with their ownership, for now. 

"I don't want them to own this," Jon says, gesturing at their linked hands. "The first time I touch you....I don’t want it to be for them."

"Me neither," Martin says softly.

Jon bites his lip. “I don’t usually...outside of rut, I don’t really...do this a lot. But I want this for us.”

“I’m honored that you would choose me,” Martin says, taking Jon’s hand and kissing the back. Jon's skin is warm under his lips, and Martin already wants more. 

Martin doesn't know how to make the next move, lean in and kiss the man he wants to be his mate. It feels like the beginning of a dream, or the first notes of a song. Martin has never been good at singing, at starting the song, but he's always been good at picking up the tune and carrying it. Perhaps this is the same.

"Can I kiss you?” Martin asks. “On—on the lips." 

Martin must sound nervous, but Jon's cheeks glow, and he nods, untangling their hands to cup Martin's cheek and neck. He pulls Martin in for a kiss, soft and exploratory, testing the waters. It's Martin who deepens it, parting his lips in invitation.

When they finally pull apart, breathless, Jon looks as elated as Martin feels, his chest blooming with a new joy. Jon rests his forehead on Martin's. He seems to be breathing in Martin's scent, savouring it. Martin is doing the same. When Jon pulls back, he kisses Martin's nose, light as a feather. He gives a small, unhappy sigh.

"You deserve better than this, Martin. You deserve the sea against your skin, the moonlight in your hair. You deserve to be courted with a proper nest. You deserve...so much more than this."

Martin's heart aches, and he clings, pulling Jon close.

"I have you, though. That's all I need." 

Martin means it, too. They only have one another in this place. And he wants Jon, needs him. He's a light in the darkness of this captivity.

"My mate," Martin says softly, trying on the sound of it. "My Jon." 

Jon's pupils dilate, and then he's pulling Martin in for another kiss, burying his hands in Martin's curls. Martin shivers, letting the kiss deepen until everything fades away except the feeling of Jon's mouth on his.

"God, I want them to see the marks I leave on you. See that you're mine." 

Jon sounds so full of a quiet possessiveness, it fills Martin with warmth. Martin's hand wanders, settling onto the soft curve that connects Jon's neck and shoulder. His nails drag over the flesh, a subtle claim. 

Jon smells so good, and tastes even better. The scent of arousal is building slowly between them, something purely for them. No one else.

"Can I, please?" Jon asks, lips brushing against Martin's throat. 

"Yes," Martin says. Jon kisses the side of his throat before sucking firmly. Martin gasps and grips his shoulders, tilting his head back to expose more skin. Jon's teeth sink deep into the flesh. By the time he's finished, Martin's panting with arousal. 

Jon pulls back to survey his handiwork. "Beautiful," he murmurs. "My beautiful mate."

The weight of Jon's fingers against the bite makes Martin shiver, the pleasure creeping up his spine. Martin smiles wide, reaching up to feel the bite marks with his fingertips. The skin is tender as Jon licks the wounds clean. 

"May I?" Martin asks, just as reverent. "Mark you as you've marked me?" 

Martin wants to do so badly, sink his teeth in and mark his mate to be. Make him feel just as Martin has, the rush of joy at knowing that he's wanted. Marked. Willingly so.

"Please," Jon murmurs, and that's all the permission Martin needs to latch his lips onto Jon's neck, sucking until his mate is gasping and squirming. 

"C-can I touch you? Martin asks shyly.

Jon tries to nod, but stops and instead murmurs, with a subtle pleased purr slipping out for a moment, "Yes, yes please."

Martin's hand trails down to Jon's lovely nipple, taking his time. Allowing Jon the time to change his mind. Jon doesn't and Martin rolls one perfect nub between his fingers. 

In time with Jon's breathy moans, Martin sinks his teeth in to mark him. The burst of blood is sweet in his mouth, all the sweeter because it's Jon's. His—his mate.

He continues teasing Jon, who is responding slowly but beautifully to Martin's attentions, his own hands trailing over Martin in their own lazy explorations. When Martin is satisfied that the mark is deep enough, he pulls away and kisses it with adoration.

"Thank you, Jon. My Jon."

Martin kisses a trail down Jon's chest and belly, finally teasing his inner thighs. The sea-salt smell of Jon is strongest here, making his mouth water. "May I?"

Jon answers by tangling his hands in Martin's hair and pulling him closer, thighs spread invitingly. "You may." Jon says, coyly. Martin kisses his inner thighs, trailing up to his slick folds, licking his way inside until Jon gasps and rocks his hips against his face. The fingers in Martin's hair tighten and Martin moans into Jon's cunt, lapping deeper. He needs this, needs Jon like he's air. Like he's the sea. 

He brings a thumb to hover over Jon's cock, brushing first in light teasing circles, then rougher ones. Jon responds best to Martin alternating, his moans and whimpers like music to Martin's ears.

Jon must be getting close. His thighs keep tightening around Martin even as Jon struggles to keep them open.

"Please, Martin, my mate,  _ harder." _

"Yes," Martin moans. "Anything you want." He thumbs Jon's cock roughly as he delves in with his tongue, feeling Jon grow wetter around him. He laps up every drop of slick as it comes before pulling out to suck Jon's cock into his mouth.

Jon's body stiffens under him. "Fuck! Fuck me, please, Martin—"

Martin slides two fingers into Jon's welcoming cunt, watching Jon's expression melt into pure pleasure. Seeing his mate like this, he can't imagine wanting to hurt Jon. His mate deserves better, deserves everything Martin can give him. Even if it's just a few moments of solace.

He can't look away from Jon's face, every shift and slowly relaxing line of Jon's body just as relaxing for Martin. He enjoys the aftershocks, but enjoys Jon pulling him up for a deep kiss even more.

“I...usually I don’t respond that strongly,” Jon says, looking sheepish. “Something about having my mark on you, though…” Jon nips at Martin’s neck, and he moans Jon's name, just as Jon moaned his, sweet as honey. 

"Mine." Jon proclaims mere centimeters from Martin's lips, this expression soft, but a hardness in his eyes promising to hurt anyone who hurts Martin.

"Yours," Martin promises. They've only known each other for a few days, but Martin would already do anything for his mate. Jon deserves it. 

"May I?" Jon asks, brushing his fingers against Martin's inner thighs. 

"Please," Martin says. It feels good to give Jon his consent, to have it  _ mean _ something. Jon's fingers are long and slender and perfect inside him, stretching him beautifully.

Jon seems to hum appreciatively at Martin's stuttered little moans and whimpers. He almost seems to be testing the waters, slowly stroking Martin, building up and dragging Martin's orgasm out of him with talented fingers. Martin's hips buck to meet the fingers in his cunt, the one teasing his cock. 

"J-Jon!" Martin cries, so close to coming he can feel it coming like an impending wave. 

That's when Jon stops, smiling wickedly. "Do you want me to eat you out, Martin?"

His fingers are still inside Martin, filling him beautifully. "Please, Jon, please." Martin begs, seeking more pressure on his cock.

"How could I resist when you beg so nicely? You look so good like this, spread out for me." Jon asks, leaning down to kiss Martin's cock. Martin shivers, hips rising to meet Jon's mouth even as Jon pins them down. Jon's lips tease him even as his tongue laps sweetly at his cock. 

"M-more!" Martin whines. 

Jon slips another finger inside him as he sucks Martin's cock into his mouth, and Martin comes apart, thighs shaking with the force of his orgasm.

He's panting, boneless in the afterglow. Jon slows down his gentle laps, but doesn't stop. Martin reaches a hand down and slips one into Jon's hair. 

He can almost feel Jon's smile as his mate apparently decides that Martin's brief respite is over. Jon increases the pressure on Martin's nearly over-sensitive cock and curls his fingers slightly inside Martin, seeking to drag another orgasm out of Martin.

"J-Jon—" Martin manages, gripping Jon's hair with both hands. He's torn between rocking against Jon's mouth and pulling away, overwhelmed by his mate's clever tongue. "Don't stop—"

Jon growls, thrusting his fingers deeper as he sucks Martin's cock back into his mouth, and Martin's tumbling over the edge again, coming so hard he gushes all over Jon's face.

For a moment, Jon's expression is somewhere between startled and gratified.

"I—I didn't anticipate that." he says, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He eyes the mess curiously, taking an experimental lick that makes Martin shiver. Jon notices, and his grin is bright and full of teeth.

"Let me kiss you," Martin murmurs, pleased as punch. He tugs Jon up so he can kiss him, taste himself on Jon. Martin whines at the loss of those fingers, but he wants Jon's lips more.

The kiss itself is lazy and soft, the scent of their lovemaking hanging around them. There's something about the taste of himself on Jon that makes Martin only want more, despite the two mind blowing orgasms. 

"You look like you could come again." Jon says, teasing.

"Not until you get another first." Martin kisses Jon again, then laughs against his lips, delighted at how easy it is with Jon, who genuinely cares if he enjoys himself. His hand brushes down Jon's chest, even as he keeps Jon's mouth occupied. Once he brushes up against one of his mate's nipples, he pauses, grinning.

"These look like they need some attention too. Now, do you want me to suck them or bite them more?"

Martin suspects Jon will like the sensation either way, but part of Martin wants to leave a mark on Jon's small breasts. Make it clearly visible for their captors to see.

"You know," Martin says, "I think I'd like you to get a proper taste of your gorgeous chest."

The little huff Jon makes is considering, and it makes Martin grin. 

"You may." Jon tells him, taking Martin's hand and bringing it to rest over his breasts. "But you'd better make it good." 

He's obviously teasing and Martin takes the chance to swoop in, teasing one with his fingers and latching on to the other with his mouth.

Jon arches into the touch, warm under Martin's fingers. Martin twists, admiring the low vocalizations he can drag out of Jon this way. He drags his teeth lightly over Jon's nipple as he detaches. 

"Beautiful, my beautiful mate..." He murmurs, soft and reverent. 

He works his way down Jon’s flat belly, dropping kisses and small bites across his dark skin. Jon shivers when Martin nibbles his hip bone, leaving a small, dark bruise. 

“Martin,” he moans, gripping Martin’s hair with both hands. “Please…”

Jon is hairless between his thighs, emphasizing the brand on his bare mound: a stylized eye wreathed in fog. Martin can’t suppress the growl the sight brings from deep in his chest. 

“Leave your own mark,” Jon demands. “They have no power here.”

Martin bites down hard on the center of the brand, then sucks dark bruises onto the skin. Jon gasps, grinding up against Martin’s face. 

“M-more—” he begs. “Please, Martin…” 

Martin can’t resist his mate any more than he can defy the tides; he bites down hard, until he tastes the copper-sweetness of blood. He can smell Jon’s arousal, and rewards him by sliding two fingers into his wet cunt. Jon grips his hair even tighter, the pain spurring Martin on, making him suck and lick the bruised skin until the brand is unrecognizable. 

“Fuck, fuck—” Jon moans, writhing beneath him. Martin leans down to suck his cock into his mouth, and Jon comes messily, spasming around Martin’s fingers. Afterwards, he pulls at Martin’s shoulders, urging him back up for a kiss. 

“They’re probably going to punish us for that,” Martin murmurs against Jon’s throat. 

“Let them,” Jon says, burying his face in Martin’s hair. 

* * *

_ 28 September 2016 _

Sasha's desk is a mess, with several empty cups of tea, crisp wrappers, and a small army of sticky notes. She’s hunched over laptop, combing through Elias’s financial records, while Tim pores over a box of statements. Any one of them could contain the clue they need, the key connection to help them find Martin. She drums her fingers against the desk. Ever since they left Elias’s basement, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched. She forces the feeling down with a great effort. 

The photos are in her desk, feeling like a bomb that's about to go off. The knowledge of their existence makes her stomach roil, especially knowing that they're in her possession until they can hand them over as proof of Elias' crimes. 

At least now they know the name of Martin's...Martin's partner. Jon. It's written on the back of some of the photos. Some of Jon’s photos date back to even before Martin disappeared, something that makes Sasha even more ill.

He has no last name as far as Elias and Peter’s notes are concerned, although that doesn’t mean much. He and his husband seemed to see them only as—as what, pets? Monsters? Sasha still isn't sure. Her head just hurts thinking about it.

"I don't understand it," Tim says, echoing her thoughts. "It's all just...how is this even real?"

Sasha violently misses the days when she thought Elias's darkest secret was probably nicking office supplies. Part of her wishes they had never agreed to check on him, though God knows Rosie didn't deserve to know, either. 

"I wonder what changed," she muses. 

"What?"

"Elias and his husband kept them for years," she says. "They branded them, tortured them...and all of that—" She swallows, a new wave of nausea sweeping over her. "Other stuff. But then they just, what,  _ snapped? _ What changed?"

"Maybe they finally had enough?" Tim suggests. 

Sasha shakes her head. "I don't think so. I mean, they did every awful thing to them you can imagine. Probably more we can't imagine." Though she's fairly certain her nightmares will try to fill in the gaps. She can't stop thinking about the scars on Martin's freckled skin, the dead look in his eyes. 

"So maybe Elias got sloppy." 

"It's possible, I suppose."

But it doesn't feel right. Something had to have changed. 

"Where's his date book?" she wonders aloud. 

Tim frowns, considering. "I don't think I saw anything like that at the house, but admittedly the, er, rotting body parts were a bit distracting. Do you think he left it here?"

Rosie is more than happy to let them into Elias's office on the pretense that they're grabbing some things for Elias "while he's working from home." Part of her wonders how long he'll keep up the ruse, but she cares less about Elias's excuses than the leatherbound book on his desk.

She opens it carefully, flipping through the pages. Most of it is fairly unremarkable - meetings with staff, dinners with people she recognizes as Institute donors, all detailed in Elias's precise hand. She flips to the last day he was seen. No appointments except one at 8pm, simply labeled "Salesa." 

"Sales?" Tim asks, squinting at the page. "What was he selling?"

"Salesa," she corrects. "I think it's a name. I could swear I've heard it before. Do they work here?"

"If they do, I haven't met them."

"Hm," Sasha murmurs, opening her computer to search through the list of Institute staff members. Salesa doesn't show up, not even when they go back a few years, then a decade. Sasha's frown deepens. 

She leans back in her chair to stare up at the ceiling. Her eyes skim across the shelves and out her office door to the wider mess that is the archives.

Tim's gaze follows hers when she stops, frozen. 

"Tim..." Sasha says slowly, the idea fully forming as she speaks, as if assembling before her eyes. "Do...do you think he could have made a statement?"

"Salesa..." Tim says, eyes going distant as he tries to place the name. "Maybe? I don't think it would be one we've taken personally, but it does ring a bell, doesn't it?"

Sasha is already dreading the inevitable search. As much as they've tried to straighten out Gertrude's mess, they haven't had much success digitizing the collection.

Salesa doesn't appear on the list of statement givers she's compiled. She and Tim resolve to stick to the sections they've reviewed since they began in the archives, which is still a dauntingly large number of statements. They each settle at their desks with a box of statements and a strong cup of tea. She’s not sure what drove her to choose these statements out of all the rest, but something about them called to her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they must be important. And it’s not like she has many better leads. 

For reasons she decides not to contemplate, she sets aside the first three statements, taking up the fourth. It doesn't contain any reference to Salesa, but the story makes bile rise in her throat: a fisherman witnesses an attempted rape on the shore, only the intended victim lashes out with teeth and claws, maiming her assailants, before grabbing her coat and disappearing beneath the waves. 

It's the sort of statement she would have dismissed before, but Gertrude's notes make her pause. As Gertrude observes, the description of a fur coat, along with the coastal location, are reminiscent of the selkie myth.

Selkies. Her gran used to tell her stories about them, beautiful women whose seal skins were stolen by their would-be husbands. But those were just stories. 

Except...Sasha knows there are things she can't explain. She's seen them with her own eyes, even touched them in Artefact Storage. It's Occam's razor: the simplest explanation is the most likely. 

"Tim," she says slowly. "I think I've found something."

Tim approaches as she's reading and rereading the statement. She doesn't say anything, just holds the papers out.

Tim reads, the silence around them tense with anticipation and something more. The sensation of eyes on her is stronger now, and she ducks a little under their weight.

"The pictures, the wounds... _ this. _ This can't mean what I think it does. It can't."

Tim's words are rushed, disbelieving. The growing panic in them has Sasha laying her hand on Tim's arm, a weak attempt at comfort.

"The visions Elias showed me—they had teeth and claws. And if Elias found a way to take their skins, they wouldn't..." She swallows, feeling sick. "They wouldn't be able to leave. That's what the stories say, anyway."

Tim claps a hand over his mouth, his face crumpling like he's about to cry. She thinks she might join him.

"If that's—if they did have their skins, then that makes what they did almost worse, doesn't it? Like stealing a part of who they were."

Sasha nods, the image of Martin in the collar and cuffs, beaten down like—like an animal, burned into her memory.

"We never really knew him, did we?" Tim asks quietly. 

"I...can understand why he'd never have told us," she admits. "If he knew someone could keep him captive that easily."

"It sounds lonely. Having a secret like that."

She thinks of the dark-eyed man from the photos. "He wasn't alone, at least."

They spend the rest of the day skimming statements for any mention of Salesa, and most of the night. They get a moment of false hope when she finds a reference to an Italian city that looks like a close match, but further inspection shows it's actually "Salerno." 

Tim finds what they're looking for later that night. 

"Oh, my god," he says. "Christ."

"What is it?" she asks, grabbing the file. Her eyes widen when she sees the heading.  _ Statement of Mikaele Salesa. _

She reads quickly, growing nauseous as the end of the story becomes apparent, Salesa narrating the horror with cold amusement. She's fairly sure she won't be eating sausage anytime soon. 

"Gertrude knew him," Tim says afterwards. "Why would Gertrude know a man like this?"

"She was tougher than you'd think," Sasha says. 

"It sounds like he's dealt with the Institute before, but if it was official business, they wouldn't have been meeting that late."

"Unofficial business, then," Sasha decides. She flips through the file. "There's no contact information."

"I don't think he's the sort one can find in the phone directory, either," Tim muses. 

Sasha rubs her eyes, sighing. "It's late. We can start looking tomorrow."

"You're not going to ride the tube this late, are you?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you?"

"No, I don't think I will." Tim says, a wry little tug pulling the corner of his lip up.

It's by mutual decision and a strange sort of paranoia that they decide to stay in the Archives that night. That leads to them staring down at the little cot tucked into the storage closet.

"So, who gets the bed?" Tim asks, looking over to Sasha, eyeing up the bags under her eyes.

"You take it. I'll take the chair." Sasha decides.

"Like hell you are." 

"As your boss, I'm ordering you to take the bed," she says, as sternly as she can at half-three in the morning. 

"As your subordinate, I'm telling you that's a shite idea."

"Ugh, fine, we'll share," she concedes, flopping onto the cot. It's not as bad as she expected. "You get to be the little spoon."

"My pleasure," Tim says, stripping down to his boxers and undershirt. Sasha unhooks her bra, sliding it out from under her shirt and tossing it onto the chair.

"Well?" She asks, raising an eyebrow, as she's settling in. "Get in. I'm cold." 

Tim does, sliding in next to her. She tugs the blanket up and over them, their meager shelter against the slight, ever present chill of the Archives.

Sasha curls up against him, dropping and arm over him. She was serious about him being the little spoon, and his presence helps calm her some. She still feels like vibrating out of her skin, though, all the horrifying things they've learned crawling like insects under her skin.

"G'night, boss," Tim murmurs. 

"Night, Tim."

Sleep claims her with surprising ease. She wakes up to the sound of the alarm on her mobile. Groaning, she attempts to roll over and swat at it, but something big and heavy is in her way. 

"M'kitstop..." Tim mumbles, burying his face in her shoulder. 

"You're in the way," she says, prodding him gently.

"Fiiiine..." Tim whines, muffled and petulant, and he drags himself up so Sasha can silence her alarm. 

They both sigh when it’s been silenced, and Sasha glances down at the time. 6:00 am, early enough, but not  _ too  _ early. She almost wishes they could sleep longer, but all the urgency of yesterday is already pressing down on her. Sasha can see the same weight hanging over Tim, the slump of his shoulders not from sleepiness, but guilt.

"We'll find him." Sasha promises Tim, resting a hand on his arm. They have to.

Mikaele Salesa doesn't exist. Not online, at least. She can't find a single business license or social media account that matches what she knows about him. She was hardly expecting a LinkedIn profile, but in her experience, even criminals had some online presence. At least an arrest record. Salesa is nowhere. 

"Do you think there'll be anything in Elias’s office?" Tim asks. 

"Worth a try," Sasha decides.

It's surprisingly easy to sneak into Elias' office at this time. Hardly anyone is here, but since they don't have Rosie's keys, they have to find another way in. 

Sasha might be good at using computers to break into where she isn't supposed to be, but physical locks are a whole other story. Tim, on the other hand... 

Tim's eyes glint as he holds up the picks he's acquired during his time in this position and kneels to begin his work. It doesn't take long before they're in. 

"Excellent." She says, rubbing her hands together, a little wicked glee creeping into her voice.

For a man with so many secrets, Elias's office is...fairly boring. The surface of his desk is immaculate, with only a few neatly stacked files in one corner. There's an honest-to-god Rolodex on his desk, and she skims through it on the off chance she might find Salesa under the letter "S." She doesn't. 

His browser history is fairly routine, rare book sellers and antiquities dealers, except for some recent searches on livestock breeding equipment. Her stomach turns as she takes in the images.

"Find anything?" Tim asks.

She closes the browser. "Not yet."

Tim finds a box of statements in a locked drawer. She resolves to take them back to the archives for later. 

They search every drawer of Elias’s desk, but there's nothing about Salesa. They're about to give up when Sasha frowns and stares into the drawer where the statements were. 

"Is it just me, or is this one shallower than the one on the other side?"

She traces the bottom of the drawer, dragging her fingers to the front. There's at least an inch of space unaccounted for. 

Tim laughs with disbelief. "What's next, secret passageways in the Institute?"

Tim slides a shim between the side and the bottom of the drawer, carefully prying it up.

There's not much in there. A photo of Elias’s husband with Jon in his lap and Martin at his feet. A photo of Jon alone, limbs wrapped in thin, delicate rope, spread open and staring defiantly at the camera. And a small, leather-bound book.

The book feels light, but something in Sasha tells her it should be heavier. An odd, dual sensation; the weight of secrets and memories Elias wished to keep buried. 

The pages in the book are delicate, with Elias' tight, neat, old fashioned handwriting. It takes a moment to decipher it, a few pieces of shorthand and the tight, small loops and curls a bit harder to read than his usual writing style. 

Names. Numbers. Notes of all sorts. She flips through the pages, Tim leaning over to look at it with her. 

It's not alphabetical—surprisingly—but it's also strangely easy to find what she's looking for. Her eyes find the entry for Salesa as if drawn by a magnet. 

"Look, here!" Sasha says, pointing to a word near the top of the page. It's contact info: a name, and number, but no address. "Mikaele Salesa."

They leave with their box of statements, not bothering to lock the desk drawer. Once they're in the archives, Sasha tries a reverse search on Salesa's number, but it's unsurprisingly fruitless. 

They spend the next few hours arguing over how to proceed. The direct approach is out of the question; they can't risk him bolting. They'll need to pretend to be a buyer. 

Tim volunteers for the call. "I've got this," he promises. 

Sasha watches anxiously as the mobile rings and rings...and goes to voicemail. Tim doesn't hesitate.

"Good morning," he drawls, in the most exaggerated Oxbridge accent Sasha has ever heard. "I'm hoping to speak with Mr. Salesa regarding his collection. I'm a purveyor of antiquities, and I've heard you specialize in more...exotic merchandise. If you would, please ring me at..."

His voice is utterly alien as he rattles off his mobile number. It takes her a moment to place the accent—he sounds almost exactly like Elias. If Elias were a young, rich idiot with too much money to spend. 

"Do you think he'll call back?" she wonders. 

Tim shrugs. "We'll see. Hopefully he doesn't know what happened to Elias."

The next few hours are tense. Sasha has all this pent up energy, the need to have answers from Salesa like an itch under her skin. She channels it reading through some of the statements they found in Elias' office, tucked away.

It’s strange, but the first thing she's drawn to is a tape. It's one of a few in the box, with a reference number written in what she recognises now as Elias' neat writing. 

Sasha digs through the pile and finds what looks like a transcript to accompany it. It has a few handwritten notes in between the lines and along the margins. 

Her tape recorder is nearby, and the click of the tape sliding home rings out in the silence. Hitting play feels invasive, like she's going to peek in on something never meant for her.

The voice that rings out from the tape is angry and resentful, but tired.

_ "What do you want from me, Elias?"  _

_ "Now, Jon, I don't think you're in any position to be making demands." _ Elias's voice is low and amused.  _ "But you know what I want, don't you? What I will always want." _

There's a pause, where Sasha imagines Jon swallowing.  _ "You want my story. To feed your god." _

_ "Correct. You really are a clever creature, aren't you?" _ Elias uses the same tone he might use for a particularly well-trained dog.

_ "That's all you Unblinking are. Vultures scavenging the leavings of other fears, with no real power of your own." _

_ "Jon."  _ Elias says, clearly disappointed,  _ "As if you aren't a creature of Beholding yourself." _

_ "My path is not yet chosen. I am Flesh and nothing more." _

_ "Are you sure about that, pet? Every choice you've made has led you here, to me, to our God. To the Unblinking. It's always called you, hasn't it? The call for knowledge, for more." _

_ "That's different,"  _ Jon snaps.  _ "I'm not  _ like  _ you." _

_ "But you could be. The Eye can offer you so much, Jon. If you would only let it." _

_ "Your Eye is a pathetic voyeur."  _

_ "Is that so?" _ Elias asks coldly.  _ "Then you should have no fear of what it can show you." _

There's a gasp, then the sound of ragged breathing, as if Jon were in pain. It continues for what feels like hours before Jon grits out, _ "Enough!" _

The sounds of struggle stop, and Jon's breathing is heavy. Chains rattle, then settle. 

Elias chuckles. _ "How quaint, to be following in your mother's footsteps so closely. The good news for you is that I won't be nearly as cruel as your father." _

Jon's voice quivers, just a bit.  _ "How can you say that when I've already suffered at your hands? When all you promise is pain if I fight?" _

_ "Then stop fighting me," _ Elias instructs, stern, _ "and embrace your role, your future. Tell me your story." _

There's a low growl, and Jon snaps,  _ "No. Your kind doesn't deserve my story." _

_ "Oh, Jon,"  _ Elias says, an audible smirk in his voice.  _ "It doesn't matter what my kind deserve. Eventually I'll have everything I want from you. Now,  _ tell me." 

Static overtakes his last words, and for a moment Sasha is worried the tape is corrupted before it fades, and Jon begins talking, a strained note in his voice.

_ "Your kind, humans, can never understand it: the freedom, the true beauty that is the wild, untamed sea. You can never understand what it means to wear your nature so thoroughly, to change forms and embrace land and sea. _

_ “Sometimes I wondered what it must be like, to be bound to the land, to two feet, without the call of the sea pulling you back to her shores. In many ways, I almost envied your kind. I wanted to see what it was like, to live among you." _

His tone changes as he continues talking, from a wistful sorrow to something quieter, more resentful.

_ "My grandmother never liked the idea of the land, not in my time by her side. She resented the humans; they had taken her daughter, and warned me that if I went, they'd take me too." _

Jon pauses, rueful. _ "I should have listened."  _

_ "How did Salesa get his hands on you?" _

Sasha gasps, sharing a look with Tim as Jon continues.

_ "I...got caught. I was curious, so curious about the human ships, and this one had an interesting feeling to it. I made the mistake of climbing onboard to investigate.” _

Jon gives a little huff, and Sasha can almost imagine the eye roll.

_ "The thing is...it was interesting. I found a few objects tucked away in an unlocked container. There was a puzzle box and a strange book. I took the book with me, and wandered the ship, as quietly as I could be." _

_ "I avoided the few sailors on deck, but ended up back at the many bins, hungry to know more. To find something else." _

Sasha shivers, understanding that need far more deeply than she cares to look into.

_ "That's where they caught me, dragged me kicking and screaming to that man, Salesa. I  _ hated  _ it, the moment they held out my pelt, let him have it. The way his smile curled in knowing..." _

_ "I don't know how long they had me. It felt like years, but it couldn't have been longer than a few months. Salesa had me...inspected...and determined I was—intact, so to be speak. Not a virgin, as Salesa claimed, but near enough that he instructed the crew not to...damage me. As much as I hate him, I suppose I'm grateful for that small mercy." _

_ "It's true,"  _ Elias says, smirking audibly.  _ "We paid a small fortune for your pelt." _

There's a snarl that makes Tim jump, all animal. It sends chills down Sasha's spine, knowing that this comes from the same man who tells his story.

When Jon's voice returns, after a brief moment of silence, it's low, subdued.

_ "It's not the first time something like this has happened to my kind, nor will it be the last. That—that doesn't mean that I don't feel the rage of generations, the loss of my skin like a constant ache. It's difficult, though, knowing just how alone I am." _

_ "My grandmother was the only person in the world who cared for me. But she knows better than most to follow and try and free a stolen selkie. I am not the first in her line to be lost to the humans; as you said, that was my mother. And now, her foolish grandson follows in his mother's steps." _

He sounds so bitter, his next words hardly more than a whisper.

_ "She won't come for me. I accept this. I just—I just wish I had left someone behind to care that I was gone; a mate, a child, or a friend. Anyone." _

_ "You  _ do  _ have someone to care for you, Jon. You have us." _

Jon growls low in his throat, and there's the sound of a scuffle. Jon's voice is strained as he continues,  _ "You'll never mean anything to me. I will claw out your eyes and  _ eat  _ them." _

Elias chuckles.  _ "Such a primitive mind you have. No, Jon, I'm sure you'll be seeing things my way in no time at all." _

_ "I don't think I will." _ Jon says, with a bravado that isn’t entirely convincing.

The click of the tape makes both of them jump. The room is quiet, tense, until Tim hisses out a  _ "holy shit." _

"Fucking christ, Elias is a monster. How could he think any of that is acceptable?" Tim is angry, his fists shaking subtly with barely repressed rage.

"He thought they were less than human," Sasha says, staring at the tape recorder as if it might come to life again. "That made it alright to him."

They're interrupted by Tim's mobile ringing. They stare it at for a long moment before Tim picks it up. His entire face changes, like pulling on a mask, with no sign of his outrage. 

"Hello," he says, smooth and flirtatious. "Is this Mr. Salesa?...Wonderful! I've heard so much about you."

There's a pause, then Tim replies, "Oh, everyone, really. You're quite the topic of conversation in certain circles."

Whatever Salesa says next makes Tim frown. "I'm sorry to hear that. Are you sure we can't arrange just one showing, though? I can definitely make it worth your while."

Tim lets out a rich chuckle. "Trust me. I am determined to get my hands on one of your...curios. Name the time and the place, Mr. Salesa, and I'll be there." 

Tim gestures, and Sasha frantically hands him a biro and notepad. "Oh, yes, absolutely. I can't wait." 

Once Tim ends the call, he collapses in his chair with a huge sigh of relief. "I was worried for a minute, but I got him."

Sasha peers down at the address, which is only barely legible after years of practice reading Tim's handwriting. "That's not far at all."

Tim frowns. “God. Did that bastard have Martin this close?”

Sasha bites her lip. “Maybe. But we had no way of knowing.” 

Tim sighs, pressing his hands against his eyes. “We’ve got a couple more hours to kill before we have to leave. We’ll have to get changed first, though.”

Sasha blinks. "Changed?"

Tim gives her a quick up and down glance. "Right now, neither of us is going to pass for a layabout with more money than brains."

"Fair enough," Sasha decides. "Let's meet at your place beforehand?"

"Perfect."

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Mr. Salesa!" Tim says cheerfully, extending his hand. "Such a pleasure to meet you."_
> 
> _"Likewise," Salesa says with much less enthusiasm, though he shakes Tim's hand. His voice carries a slight French lilt. "You did not say you were bringing a friend."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who's stuck with us so far! We really appreciate you! <3 Chapter warnings are available in the endnotes. Thanks also to cuttooth for betaing!

_ 29 September 2016 _

Tim hates the photos. Looking at them feels like committing a crime. He’s intruding on something he’s not meant to see, was  _ never  _ meant to see. But the photos might be the best way to find Martin, and he can’t ignore that possibility. So he makes himself look, no matter how much the photos make his skin crawl. And because he can’t bring himself to let Sasha do it. They’d argued about it, but Tim had persisted, and finally convinced her that her skills were better used otherwise. 

None of them are easy to look at, but some of them are truly horrific. Martin stretched out, exposed, vulnerable in ways that make Tim hurt to see. One photo shows Martin’s partner, Jon, strapped to a table, while the larger man—Peter, according to the caption on the back—holds a tattoo gun against his hip. Jon’s face is tight with pain as he stares up at the ceiling. Another shows Martin face-down against a whipping post, Elias’s hand raised high as he prepares to slap him. His pale skin is already littered with bruises. 

In another photo, Jon and Martin are posed on a bed of silk. Their poses are coy, faces half-turned from the camera, their limbs artfully arranged. Jon’s gaze is cast downward, while Martin’s meets the camera. The scene is beautiful, a near gallery-quality composition, highlighting Martin’s soft body and his partner’s delicate features. The only thing that ruins it is the tense, uncomfortable look in Martin’s eyes, at odds with the flirtatious pose. Tim’s stomach turns. 

One of the most graphic photos shows Martin on his back in the same bed, his hands tied to the bedposts, his legs spread wide. Jon’s fist is buried in his cunt. The camera is so close Tim can see how wet Martin is, see the slick covering Jon nearly to his wrist. Elias looms close by, his hand on Jon’s shoulder as he whispers what Tim assumes are instructions. Jon’s face is pained as he slides another finger against Martin’s entrance. Martin’s eyes are fixed on Jon, his gaze reassuring. 

Tim’s nearly hit his limit and is about to take a break to smoke or possibly vomit when his fingers catch on something odd at the bottom of the box. He frowns, prodding the bottom edge, when it comes loose. 

“What the fuck,” he says. With a little prying, the bottom comes loose, revealing an entirely new set of photos. 

“Sasha!” he shouts. “Sasha, you need to see this!”

Tears are streaming down his face by the time she returns from the back room, where she’d been combing for statements. 

“Tim, what is—?”

They both stare down at the top photo. Martin is curled up in a nest of blankets and pillows, with Jon feeding him by hand. Martin’s belly is round and full, his breasts swollen. He’s pregnant. 

“Oh, my god,” Sasha says, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Fuck.” 

In the next photo, Martin is holding an infant. She has his round cheeks and button nose. Jon is curled around them both, and it’s clear from the men’s gazes that they’re utterly taken with their child. 

“Where...where’s the baby?” Tim asks. “I didn’t see anything in the house…”

Sasha shakes her head wordlessly. She can’t seem to tear her eyes away from the photo, from the loving expressions on Martin’s and Jon’s face. Tim can’t, either. He’s never seen Martin look so happy. Not in the time he knew him. 

Tim swallows. “I think...I think we could use a break.” 

Sasha bites her lip. “I...yeah. Me, too.”

* * *

_ 5 April 2013 _

The signs are subtle at first. Martin loses interest in breakfast, looking slightly nauseated when Jon tries to encourage him to eat. Jon becomes more protective, earning a punishment for snarling at Peter when he wakes them up for an early morning tumble. Then Martin realizes his blood is late. 

Jon's eyes shine with tears when he tells him. 

"Can I touch?" he asks softly. 

"You won't feel anything," Martin says, but he lets him anyway. 

Jon's hand is warm on his belly. He leans down to place a soft kiss against the skin. 

"Our child," he says, his voice full of wonder. Martin can't help but hold him close, overwhelmed with how much he loves his mate. 

For a moment he allows himself to imagine what might have been. Him and Jon, free, raising their child by the sea. Teaching them to read the stars and tides. Giving them the Blessing under the light of the full moon.

They'll never have that, he realizes. His heart sinks as he considers the prospect of raising a child in captivity. Raising Elias’s child, or Peter’s—or worse, not getting to raise them at all.

It doesn't matter who got him pregnant; Jon is the only father Martin cares for his child to have, though he knows the choice won't be his.

They manage to hide the pregnancy until Martin makes a mistake. Peter grabs him at the wrong moment, when Martin's feeling territorial and craving a safe and comfortable nest, and Martin snaps, burying his teeth deep in the flesh of Peter's wrist. 

The slap is completely expected. What Martin doesn’t expect is for Jon to at snap Peter in fury, teeth bared in a snarl. Peter shakes him off easily, flinging him halfway across the room. 

"I'm sorry!" Martin yelps. "Please, it's my fault—"

Peter seizes Martin by the hair, hauling back for another slap when Jon shouts, "Stop, you can't! He's pregnant!"

Peter's expression changes immediately from one of fury to something Martin can't read. He immediately sends for tests and makes Martin take them all, right in front him in the opulent master bathroom.

Peter sets an alarm on his phone while they wait. The time spent waiting for each test to change, to show exactly what he and Jon have known for a while, feels like an eternity. It almost feels like he can't breathe, the air suffocating around him. He's terrified of how Peter will react. The man is still wearing that unreadable expression, though his grip on his phone is tight. 

Jon is still downstairs, so far away. Martin can't help but fear that Elias and Peter will demand that he abort the child. Or worse, take the child and keep them just like they keep Martin and Jon. 

Finally, the alarm rings for the first. Peter glances down at the test, then up at Martin. 

"Congratulations, pet."

Those words have never sounded as ominous—as gut wrenching—as they have in that moment.

"You're...happy?" Martin asks hesitantly. 

Peter smiles, his eyes alight with pleasure. "We'd hoped to breed you both from the beginning. I never knew what a good broodmare you'd make." He leans over Martin, his broad palm covering Martin's belly. "Perhaps we'll have to try harder with Jon, get you both knocked up at the same time. Wouldn't that be lovely? Like having twins." 

Martin shivers as Peter's hands slide up to squeeze his breasts firmly, as if he were testing fruit at the grocer. "Soon these will be nice and full of milk for our baby, won't they?" He pinches Martin's nipples. "I can't wait." 

Martin bites his lip. "Wh-what will happen with the baby?"

His heart races as Peter gives him a long, smug look. 

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it, pet," he says, reaching down to open his belt. "It's time to celebrate."

* * *

_ 24 October 2013 _

Martin’s pregnancy brings out a side of Jon no one anticipated. Elias knows selkies are primitive, easily given over to instinct, but Jon surpasses all of his expectations, hissing and baring his teeth at the slightest provocation. His punishments grow more frequent, more severe, to the point of risking permanent damage, but Jon refuses to stop guarding his mate like a dog with a meaty bone. They’ve scarcely been able to touch either of the selkies; the last few weeks have been a war of attrition. 

“Well, we did want them to bond,” Peter says one day while Elias is washing out a set of bite marks on his thigh. 

“We can’t allow their discipline to lapse,” Elias snaps. “Unless you  _ want  _ a pair of untamed animals in the house.”

“You  _ know  _ how beasts get over their young,” Peter says. “All those hormones messing about their heads. They’ll get over it.”

“Then  _ you  _ can feed them tonight.”

Elias pretends not to watch from his study as Peter approaches the nest that night.

“Hello, pets,” he says cheerfully. 

Jon raises his head from the nest of blankets, glaring suspiciously at his owner. That won’t do. No, it won’t do at all. 

“I’ve brought you something to eat, and some fresh tea.” Peter offers. “Do you want it?”

By now, Martin is blinking sleepily at Peter. He’s taken to napping for long stretches of the day as his pregnancy has worn on. Now he can barely get to his feet without Jon’s help. Jon slowly creeps from the nest, staring at Peter the entire time. 

Peter crouches down so their faces are nearly level, holding out the thermos. Jon snatches it quickly, unscrewing the lid and taking a sniff before handing it to Martin. 

“Hot tea next time,” Jon demands. 

“What are you willing to do to earn that?”

Jon considers for a long moment. “You can touch me. As long as Martin isn’t too far away.” 

Peter laughs at his boldness. “You drive a hard bargain, pet.” There’s a tense silence before he adds, “I’ll take it. Here, have some meat.” 

The meal continues in that vein, with Peter handing scraps of meat to Jon, who inspects each one before handing the best pieces to Martin. It would be touching if it weren’t so  _ infuriating. _

Later Elias tells him, “You shouldn’t have bargained with the creature.” 

Peter laughs. “Do you have any better ideas? That’s the best deal we’ve gotten in a while.”

Elias scowls, but doesn’t say anything further.

* * *

_ 23 September 2016 _

Salesa loops an arm around Martin's waist as he sits, drawing him into his lap. 

Jon's hands are quivering as he pours three glasses of wine. It takes everything in him to only offer the glass to Salesa, and not throw it in the man's face and go for his throat. 

Salesa takes the glass. He doesn't thank Jon, just continues to fondle Martin, slipping a second finger in as Jon watches. 

Martin's whimper, upset and a little desperate, makes Jon's heart race, the drum of it only ramping up his urge to act. But he can’t. He doesn’t want Martin to suffer for his impulsivity.

He steadies his hand, and presents Elias and Peter with their wine. He receives a fond pat from Peter as he settles on the floor between them. Jon cannot drag his eyes away from Martin, his attention glued to his face. The least he can do is watch over Martin in what way he can. Make sure there are no bruises left in the wake of those cruel fingers.

"I have a breeding stand that might suit your needs," Salesa says, a subtle smirk colouring his tone. 

"I picked it up not too long ago. It's rather unique in its properties, making whoever is strapped into it obsessed with being bred. They need every hole stuffed  _ constantly,  _ or the result is quite painful. It's rumored to greatly increase fertility as well."

Salesa laughs, sipping his wine. "That was discovered the hard way, but for its purpose, it's perfectly suited." 

Salesa's palm grinds against Martin's cock, and Martin makes a choked sound. His eyes are wide and fixed straight ahead as the horror of Salesa's words hits them both. 

More breedings. More painful heats. More children stolen from their arms and growing up alone and hurt and out of their reach. Jon wants to rush to him, to stroke his hair and tell him it won't happen, but the punishment will be worse for both of them if they disobey in front of a guest.

"Fascinating," Elias says, his gaze growing avaricious. He doesn't seem surprised at the existence of such artefacts—Jon is half sure they're the reason Salesa was invited to begin with. 

"How many can he take?" Salesa asks conversationally, prodding a third finger against Martin's entrance.

"He's been known to take a full fist from his mate on a regular basis, and even Elias a few times. Usually during their ruts, though. At their most needy." Peter says, utterly pleased. Jon has seen Martin take Peter's too, once, but that had almost been too much. When Jon objected to Martin’s treatment, Peter had forced it inside him as well. They’d both been sore for days afterward.

He doesn't want a single finger more of Salesa's inside Martin. He knows just how far Salesa will push Martin if permitted. He hates hearing those noises coming out of Martin, can't stand the thought of what other ones he might drag out.

"I also have a beautiful, old fashioned milking machine." Salesa says, as if he isn't slowly, deliberately pushing a third finger into Martin. His eyes have an excited glitter that makes Jon sick.

"It increases milk production, makes it a little more...permanent, if you will. Might even improve the size of those tiny tits." Salesa motions with his other hand at Jon's chest, a lascivious smirk. "Make something worthwhile of them for once."

Salesa draws his fingers to his mouth and spits on them, leaving Martin's abused entrance gaping for a brief moment before sliding a fourth finger inside. Jon's hands clench so hard his nails cut into his palms. He hardly notices.

"Where did you acquire such...specialized accoutrements?" Elias asks, raising a brow. 

Salesa's reply is lost to Jon because he's focused on Martin's pained wince as Salesa's thick fingers pump inside of him. A soft whimper spills from Martin's throat. 

Salesa stops his rambling to look at Martin, following his gaze to Jon. His lips curl in a slow, cold smile. 

"Are you jealous, pup? Come here and help me. I'm sure he'd love some of your pretty fingers in this tight little cunt." Salesa slaps Martin's mound, making him cry out.

Jon hesitates, and Elias clears his throat, making it clear that this is one order he can't ignore. Jon crawls closer, planting a kiss on the inside of Martin's thigh. Kneeling so close to Salesa makes his skin crawl.

The scent of the sea clinging to Salesa is almost as much of a slap to the face as the scent of his mate mingling with this monster. 

"I bet you're just begging to be bred aren't you, sweetheart? Milk flowing, finally useful to your owners. Right alongside your mate."

Jon tries to ignore the words Salesa murmurs, close to his ear. Tries to focus on Martin. He reaches down to his own cunt, lubing up his fingers with some of the slick. It feels like admitting defeat, but at least it will be more comfortable for Martin. He presses another kiss to Martin's thigh, an apology, before he brushes them over Martin's cock. His mate deserves some pleasure at least.

Salesa laughs, delighted. "You're wet. You love watching him get put to use, don't you?"

Jon's cheeks flush with shame. By this point, his responses are hardwired, and he's often wet as soon as he's on his knees.

Jon bites down on a scathing reply, holding in the words he wants to spit back in Salesa's face, like poison. Inside, he mouths at Martin's inner thigh, teeth scraping along the flesh. 

Martin responds to that, the little breathy sound one of the first pleased ones he's made this awful evening. He knows Jon's mouth, the feel of his teeth, very well by now.

"I bet between the pair of you, you could produce a lot of valuable selkie pups. After all, the skins are well worth their price aren't they? And on that breeding stand, monster, you won't even care. Not when it's worked its charms on you."

Salesa's voice, like oil, twists his gut into vicious knots. He can't keep the image out of his head, the cruelty digging like claws into Jon's imagination.

"Your little mate would make a perfect broodmare, wouldn’t he? Fucked out of his mind, too desperate to care about anything but getting filled. Not a single thought in his pretty head."

Martin is breathing hard, his thighs quivering as Jon slowly runs his hand up his thigh. Jon fights to hide the flinch when his hand brushes Salesa's. Salesa doesn't deserve to be in the same room as Martin, much less...this.

"I’m sure your little mate could be lent out too, for enough money, hm? Fucked and bred by a line of strangers. He'd enjoy every second."

Jon cannot believe that neither of his owners would put a stop to Salesa's nattering. They're normally so possessive, and now they're so hands off it almost hurts more. 

"I bet I could borrow him, or buy him when he's all but used. Take him out to sea, let my crew have free rein of his body. He'll have his uses out there."

Peter lets out a nasty chuckle. "We may have to take you up on that if he isn't knocked up again soon. It's a waste to have him empty."

Tears gather in Martin's eyes, rolling silently down his cheeks. Blood roars in Jon's ears. It's far too easy to imagine: his mate tied to the railing of the ship, hollow-eyed and filled with a stranger's child as sailor after sailor fucks his unresisting body. Martin alone, no mate to protect him, his pups seized before weaning just so he can be filled again. 

Before Jon can think better of it, his teeth sink into the flesh of Salesa's forearm. Hot blood spurts into his mouth. Salesa screams, his massive fist slamming against Jon's skull, and Jon reels back, taking a chunk of flesh between his teeth.

"You stupid whore!" Salesa shouts, shoving Martin from his lap. He kicks Jon in the belly, making him curl in on himself even as he swallows the chunk of meat.

"No!" Martin shouts, trying to shove his body between Jon and Salesa. He takes the next blow to his face, making Jon howl with rage, his hands forming claws as he slashes at Salesa's face.

"Enough!" Peter roars, grabbing Jon by the scruff like a disobedient pup and shaking him hard.

Jon makes a strange, high noise. Inhuman, somewhere between upset and pained and utterly furious. He's still scrabbling to reach Salesa, but Peter's grip is unforgiving and firm. He drags Jon away, and the scene stands still for a moment like a portrait in his mind: Martin staring at him with sorrow and some other emotion Jon doesn't dare put a name to. Salesa clutching his arm, his face twisted into something ugly and pained. Elias furious, just about to kick Martin out of the way so he can help his guest.

Almost as quickly, everything speeds up and again, and Jon is being dragged to the basement, away from Martin.

Tears flow fast and openly, terror and anger fight for dominance within him. He can't break free though, reaching as he might to loose himself from his owner's cruel grasp.

"Please! Don't let him hurt Martin!" He sobs.

"It's not him you should be worried about," Peter growls. 

* * *

_ 29 September 2016 _

When Sasha gets to Tim's place, sensibly dressed after her stop at home, she knocks on the door. It took a few minutes longer than she anticipated, and when Tim finally opens the door she can only sigh.

"Tim..." she says, taking in his deep v-neck shirt and too tight jeans. Those, she knows for a fact, only come out when they’re clubbing and he wants to really draw some attention to himself. His ensemble is topped off with a knockoff designer watch and borderline gaudy shoes that scream  _ I have more money than taste, _ which she supposes is technically the look they are going for.

Perhaps the worst part, she has to admit, is his hair; slicked back in that perfect asshole style that makes her cringe. Not a hair is out of place, and some small part or her wants to mess it up, to ruffle those perfectly preened feathers.

"You look, um." She stops, losing track of where she was going. 

"Thanks," he says with a wink. "Hopefully this prick will be too distracted by my arse to notice we're not buyers." 

"It certainly looks distracting," she says mildly. 

He gives her an assessing look. "You look like my sensible fiancée determined to stop me squandering my inheritance before you can put a ring on it." 

"In all fairness, I  _ am _ the sensible one." 

"I can be sensible!" Tim protests.

"Mmmhm." Sasha hums, amused. Tim just shakes his head and leads her in. 

"I have one more thing that'll sell this," He says, and takes off for his room.

Sasha glances down at herself, considering the role she's been cast into, adjusting her sleeves and her hair so she looks a little bit more harried. 

Tim emerges with a ring. Delicately wrought silver, with a princess-cut diamond surrounded by smaller blue stones, something elegant and much older than the rest of what Tim wears. 

"It was my grandmother’s," he tells her, smiling down at it sadly, "Something passed for my or...for Danny's use."

"Tim, I can’t wear this—" Sasha starts, before Tim cuts her off.

“It’s just for tonight. Unless you’re planning on stealing it.” 

“I’d never—”

Tim’s expression grows serious. "If we can use it to find Martin, then it's worth it. Him and his partner deserve to know that someone still cares, you know? That someone missed them." Tim's voice wavers for a moment only before it crystallises into something more firm and certain.

Sasha swallows. "Okay," she says. "I'll do it."

She holds out her hand, and Tim gently slides the ring onto her finger. Once it's on, she can't stop staring. It fits perfectly. His hand lingers on hers. 

"It...it looks good on you," Tim says. His voice is oddly hoarse.

Before Sasha can reply, he presses something else into her palm. She stares for a long moment before she realizes what she's holding.

"Where on earth did you get a  _ taser?"  _

Tim flashes her a wink. "It’s remarkably easy to obtain a taser in central London.” 

That breaks the lingering tension, and Sasha laughs, abrupt, before she slips into giggles.

Then, the absurdity of this entire situation hits her all at once. 

They're seeing a strange man about Elias, their boss, who kidnapped her friend. Who, himself was one of the last who very likely saw Martin before he and Jon snapped and turned on said boss.

And all  _ this _ might lead them to their flesh eating seal monster of a friend.

It's crazy. Strange beyond belief. But god, she wants to find Martin. Apologize and do whatever she can for him. He deserves it after all this time. 

The address Salesa gives them is in a relatively nondescript flat in a quiet neighborhood. Not the back alley transaction Sasha had half expected, but then, she suspects Salesa has been doing this for a long time. She and Tim exchange looks before entering the building. 

"Are you sure you have the right address?" she asks.

"It's the one he gave me," Tim assures her. She can't resist sneaking glimpses at his outfit, the tight v-neck and the nearly obscene jeans. If it works on her, she figures it will probably work on Salesa. Even if the idea makes something in her twitch with irritation.

A sudden bout of nervousness strikes her when Tim's hand hovers over the door they've been guided to. It also feels right, like an internal little ping marks this as the correct spot, even if there is an aura here of...almost danger. Like it's too flat, yet too much. Sasha doesn't know if she could explain it out loud if she had too. 

"Come in, come in," a voice rings out. 

It sounds like it should be boisterous; instead, it feels tired, more serious. They hesitate, exchanging a quick nod between them, before Tim twists the knob, trying to project a rich asshole's confidence as he swings the door open.

The first thing she notices about Mikaele Salesa is his size. He's tall and broad-shouldered, though he carries himself lightly. His face has an ashen cast beneath the rich red-brown of his skin, as if he'd been ill recently. His right eye is covered with a bandage, though he's combed his long black hair over it. She stares for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. 

"Mr. Salesa!" Tim says cheerfully, extending his hand. "Such a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Salesa says with much less enthusiasm, though he shakes Tim's hand. His voice carries a slight French lilt. "You did not say you were bringing a friend."

"Rebecca," she says, offering her own hand. Salesa bends to kiss it, and she suppresses a shudder. "I'm Bradley's fiance."

"Well come, sit, sit. I can offer you a drink perhaps? Tea? Coffee? Perhaps a bit of scotch?" 

Salesa eyes the pair of them up, as if judging them and trying to decide what might be best used to loosen their lips and wallets. Sasha does her best not to twitch under yet another gaze, settling herself on one of the chairs in front of the desk.

"Tea will be fine," Sasha says, thankful that they can see into the kitchenette while Salesa makes it. 

"I had actually just put on the kettle," Salesa says cheerfully, setting out cups. "I know how you English are about tea."

He's good, Sasha realizes. Perfectly capable of charming anyone in his path, even knowing what he's done. She takes a deep breath, reminding herself that this is all for Martin. 

"Guilty," Tim says with a laugh that sounds like all those public school arseholes she went to university with. "A man must have his vices."

"I suspect your vices run more deeply than this," Salesa says, raising an eyebrow as he hands them each a cup.

"Perhaps they do," Tim demurs. 

Sasha stares at the cup in her hands, a delicately wrought china piece with a pattern of twisting vines.

She pulls her eyes away, accidentally meeting Salesa's. He's smiling, and he tilts his head. "I suspect that you have more investment in this transaction than you care to admit."

When she doesn't say anything, he asks, almost coy, "Are you two looking for something to spice up the wedding or home? Or, perhaps, something else?"

"We want something we can enjoy  _ together," _ she says, letting him fill in the blanks on his own. "Perhaps a toy, or...a pet." 

The change in Salesa is immediate: his face grows paler, his expression stricken as he jumps to his feet. 

"Who sent you here?" he demands. "I have already paid my debts."

Sasha's eyes drift to the bandage over his eye. "Paid you a visit, did they? Good."

"What do you want?"

"We want to know where they went. We want to find them." Sasha snaps, and stands up. Something in her needs answers, and his reactions speak volumes about the depth of what he knows.

"Why?"

"You hurt our friend," Tim growls. 

"Those things are no one's friends!" Salesa says, face contorted with anger.

"You're full of shit," Tim snaps. 

"You think someone's friend would do this?" Salesa demands, tearing off the bandage to reveal the ruin of his eye. There are no sutures, no evidence he ever went to a hospital. Sasha shudders at the sight of the raw, exposed wound. "They aren't human."

"They're more human than the men who kept them," Tim retorts.

"We don't care what you think," Sasha says evenly. "Tell us what you know. Tell us everything about Jon and Martin."

Salesa's face twitches, and he looks as though he's trying to close his mouth but can't. Finally he laughs. 

"Watchers. I should have known."

_ What does that mean? _ Sasha thinks, but pushes on. They've got him cornered. 

_ "Tell us what you know,"  _ she orders. 

There's something more to her words, a buzz, a hiss of static that feels so,  _ so _ right. Salesa struggles again, fighting down the words Sasha can almost feel bubbling in the air between them. 

Some instinct makes her begin, "Statement of Mikaele Salesa, regarding the fates of Jon and Martin Blackwood." It feels like a proper bookend to his testimony. 

"It was night time when the selkie wandered up to our ship. I knew him immediately for what he was: a chance for a handsome profit. For such a vicious thing, he was naive, and that worked in my favor. His name was Jon. Honestly I was tempted to keep him for myself; he was a pretty little thing, but not so pretty that I wouldn't sell him for the right price."

Sasha swallows bile as he continues. "I could tell he was the curious type. Perhaps he would have been a Watcher like you. There was an artifact I had, a puzzle box that forced its victims' attention on it until it was solved. I gave it to him, and stole his skin while he was distracted. He wept like a child when he realized what I had done."

Tim pales a little, the anger on his face sharper. Salesa keeps going.

"We found that I was the only one that could feed him with relative ease. It was simply safer, since it seemed he could not harm me; he had a habit of leaving my crew with bite and claw marks, like an animal. He was vicious, but I persisted. I knew if I found someone capable of handling him, he would be well worth it."

There's a pause, a defeated intake of breath. "That's where Elias Bouchard and Peter Lukas came in. They were perfect; rich, eager, and best of all,  _ curious _ about this creature. They could handle Jon and anything he threw at them."

"You could have let him go," Tim shouts. 

"Why? And let someone else have the profit?" Salesa scoffs. "Someone else would have taken him."

"So you sold him to Elias," Sasha says. 

"For quite a tidy sum, yes," Salesa admits. "After that, I saw very little of them. The second selkie was an employee at Bouchard's own Institute. He paid me quite well to steal his skin. He hardly needed to bother. The skin was under his bed." Salesa laughs. "I don't think he ever expected to be found out. This one, I did not meet until much later."

"You left them to rot, to suffer. How could you do that to a person? To two?" Tim growls, and Salesa flinches. 

"They're not  _ people,” _ Salesa argues. “They are animals who disguise themselves as humans to blend in and breed with us. You've seen that, I'm sure. They'll only bite the hand that feeds them. Besides, a life with Bouchard would be far better and safer, no doubt, than one in the wild."

Selesa's mouth keeps running, though, more of the story spilling out despite their interruptions.

"Recently, Elias contacted me. He was kind enough to invite me to a dinner party to show off just how far their acquisitions had come. That, and they were in the market for something... new for their pets. I had exactly what they needed. Several things, in fact."

"Their newer selkie was a delight. A soft, round little thing, and he made such delicious noises when I touched him. Of course, his mate was jealous. I will admit I enjoyed riling Jon up, enjoyed touching his mate while he was forced to serve me as a guest. I should have known he wasn't as tame as he appeared. "

Salesa rolls up his sleeve to reveal a row of bite marks. They look to be several days old, scabbed over and healing. "When he attacked me, his owners were naturally very embarrassed. Lukas took him downstairs for punishment, while Bouchard made sure his mate offered a suitable....apology."

When Sasha sees the bite marks, all she can feel is a sharp vindication. Salesa deserved that bite, deserved knowing what pain he had a part in creating. The undercurrent of smugness sends waves of anger through Sasha and she has to bite her tongue. She can only imagine what Jon felt, being led away, even as he was left unaware of what they had in store for Martin. A quick look at Tim's face shows the same sort of thought process.

"After I left for the evening, I began the paperwork to sort out the sale of the rather unique breeding stand that Elias had wanted to purchase. I had expected to hear from them within a few days. After all, they would need time to deal with their unruly pets and gather what they needed."

Salesa starts shaking here, but he continues. "That's why it surprised me, when it wasn't Elias or Peter who visited my office, but the selkies themselves."

"You got off easy," Sasha informs him. 

"I'm sure I did," Salesa confesses. "They offered me a choice of which part they would take.” Sasha remembers the gory mess between Elias’s thighs, and she can’t entirely blame him for that choice. He continues, “This was...the most acceptable option. In exchange for my life, I gave my word that I would never sell anything like them again. And helped them procure certain documents."

"You'd best see to it that you honor that agreement," Tim says. 

"I have no intention of doing such a thing again," Salesa says, pulling his sleeve back down. "Clearly such affairs lead to unnecessary risks. No, I shall stick to curios." 

"Where did they go?" Sasha asks. 

Salesa shakes his head. "They did not tell me. I suspect they will be looking for their child.”

“Where’s the child?” Sasha demands. 

Salesa shrugs. “I never knew or cared what happened to the child. It was none of my business."

Tim's jaw clenches, and Sasha can see that he's still raring for a fight, despite knowing Salesa has already gotten his comeuppance. 

"See that it stays that way." Tim spits, a growl in his voice.

Sasha wants to get out of here now. Chase the feeling in her gut that tells her that the pair are still around. Still in London.

"Statement ends." Sasha says, firm, a cold dismissal. It feels required, almost ritualistic. 

She gives Salesa one more look, one that promises to ensure that he keeps to his vows. Sasha does not wish him goodbye, just turns on her heels and grabs Tim by the arm.

"Come on. We'll find them ourselves."

Sasha manages to hold on to her strong demeanor until they're in the lift, when her carefully maintained control crumbles, and she starts crying. She tries to cover her face, stifling the sound of her sobs, but Tim wraps his arms around her. His embrace feels good. Warm and safe. Part of her, the part wracked with guilt at everything Martin’s suffered, doesn't want it to feel good.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly. 

"I just—he hurt Martin. He was so fucking  _ smug  _ about it, too." 

"At least Martin's safe now," he says, stroking her hair. 

"God, I hope so," she says, burying her face in his chest.

"He—he has Jon. And I don't think either of them will let anyone hurt the other, or themselves again."

Sasha can only nod, gather her resolve, and pull herself together for the next part of their search. They'll need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: physical abuse, eye trauma, pregnancy, forced childbearing, castration


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“She’s perfect,” Martin says, leaning down to kiss her tiny face. “And you will do nothing to harm her.”_
> 
> _“We have no intention of harming our investment,” Elias says._
> 
> _Jon growls low in his throat. “Our child is not an investment.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is A Lot. You may want to see the chapter warnings at the end. However, things start looking up from here, we promise! Lots of love.

_29 September 2016_

After the awful encounter with Salesa, neither of them particularly wants to return to the Institute. They end up at Tim’s flat by unspoken agreement. Tim is quietly relieved; he doesn’t want to be alone, or leave Sasha alone, and the Institute is feeling less safe by the day. Sasha looks wrecked. He’s not sure if it’s because of the lack of sleep, the emotional turmoil, or the strange power that seems to be spilling out of her. He doesn’t understand it, but Sasha is changing somehow. 

Tim leaves Sasha on the sofa with his warmest blanket, popping into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He can’t help but remember Martin doing the same for them, so many times. Martin always made the best tea. No matter how Tim makes it, it never tastes the same. 

“Pretty sure I need a curry,” Tim says, pulling out the milk and tea bags. 

“I could murder a curry,” Sasha says, flopping onto her belly on the couch. “Two curries, even.”

Tim orders on his phone, then brings two steaming mugs of tea into the sitting room. He settles on the other end of the sofa. Sasha promptly puts her feet in his lap. The warmth of her body is comforting. 

“That fucking vile man,” she says, face screwed up with disgust. “How many other people has he done this to?”

“He won’t do it again,” Tim says flatly. “We’ll make sure of it.” 

“He’s lucky they didn’t take more from him.”

Tim remembers the bloody mess between Elias’s thighs, and suppresses a shudder. Elias’s punishment was well-deserved, but thinking of it still makes him queasy. 

“We’re back at square one, though,” Sasha muses. “No Martin, no Jon, no real idea of where they could be.”

“London is a big place. Hell, they could have left already. I wouldn’t blame them.” 

Their curries arrive—two vindaloos for Sasha and a tikka masala for Tim, both with hot, crispy naan. Tim tries to steal a bit of Sasha’s, only to get viciously rebuffed. 

“You’ve got your own,” she complains, swatting his hand away. 

“You’ve got _two,”_ he argues. 

“You could’ve gotten two of your own,” she says loftily. It’s just as well. The smell of peppers is making his eyes water a bit. 

“My mum used to make the worst curry,” Tim says, spearing a bit of chicken. “Danny used to love it, though. I still don’t know why. I used to give him mine so I wouldn’t have to eat it.” 

“Mine didn’t cook. We lived off takeaway.” 

Sasha holds up a forkful of lamb, offering it to Tim, and he takes a bite, then frantically reaches for his drink, swallowing rapidly. Afterwards, he gives her a bite of his much safer tikka masala.

“You knew it was going to be spicy,” she says, laughing. 

“Not _that_ spicy,” Tim complains. 

“Someday I’ll train you to handle proper spices.” 

“You wish, Miss James,” he teases. “You know I’m too much of a wimp.”

“But you still insist on trying my food every time.”

They settle into their curry, then split a bar of chocolate from Tim’s pantry. Neither of them can stop thinking of the case, constantly bringing up ideas for their next route of investigation, though none of them are great. 

“Wait a minute,” Sasha finally says. “Didn’t Martin used to talk about his mother?”

Tim mulls it over, thinking back to some of the conversations he had with Martin. "I'm pretty sure he did. Mentioned something about visiting her sometimes I think? Beyond that I don't think he ever mentioned her much." The memory is fuzzy, and it feels like grasping at smoke. "If she's still alive, then he'd want to see her after so long. She must have been worried sick."

Sasha nods, heading to grab her computer from where she had dropped it in frustration by the door. "Let me see if we can find her. She’s our best lead.”

Tim can't help but notice that Sasha has this determined scrunch to her nose. It's charming; she always gets this way when she's focused on a task, in the zone and eager to push onward.

“Let’s start with his personnel file,” she says cheerfully. “If that doesn’t work, we can do a public records search.” 

She hacks into the personnel database with frankly alarming ease, pulling up Martin’s profile. It’s marked inactive. “We’ve got an emergency contact listed, but no address. Alicja Blackwood.”

Tim makes more tea while she keeps digging. She barely notices when he sets the steaming cup at her elbow, absorbed in her work. Finally she lets out a triumphant _ha!_ before turning her laptop to face him. The screen shows the front page for a care home. 

“She can’t be that old,” Tim says. 

“It’s where she’s lives. I found her name on the list of residents. Can’t be _that_ many Alicja Blackwoods out there.”

“It’s late. We should probably wait to call in the morning.” Tim decides. 

Sasha purses her lips. “I guess so. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep, though. Not with another lead.” 

“Come on, Sasha. You need some sleep. At least _try.”_

Sasha looks reluctant, but she finally agrees. They both know the home won’t take calls at that hour anyway. Tim loans her a t-shirt and a pair of his gym shorts to sleep in, trying not to think too hard about how adorable she looks in them. 

They don’t bother arguing over who’ll take the bed. 

* * *

_28 November 2013_

Martin’s water breaks late at night, while Elias and Peter are upstairs. Jon helps him into the birthing pool he and Peter set up, holding his hand and whispering encouragement throughout the night. The experience is bittersweet; it’s the closest he’s felt to the sea in years, but it’s also dead water, completely artificial, with none of the sea’s vitality. They both know it’s the best they’ll get, though. 

Elias attempts to check his progress in the morning, but the snarl on Jon’s face combined with his low growl are enough to drive him away. Neither he nor Peter attempt to interfere again, though they deposit food and water at the foot of the stairs. 

Jon sings the songs his grandmother taught him, songs meant to ease the pain of labor. Songs about the moon and the tides and the stars, and storms weathered. Martin has never loved him more.

Martin’s never felt anything like labor: the pain, the contractions flowing like waves through his body. It’s nearly daybreak when he realizes the time has come: their child comes into the world with a loud cry, like she knows what she’s been born into. 

Martin can’t believe how small she is, her perfect little features, like a doll’s. Her ink-dark eyes, her delicate skin, her wisps of brown hair as fine as spider silk. Her tiny hands clutch Martin’s finger when he reaches out. 

“She’s beautiful,” Jon says. Martin can tell by his expression that he’s utterly taken with their daughter. 

“She has your eyes,” Martin replies with a shaky grin. 

“She has your hair,” Jon tells him, stroking the soft strands. His expression is awestruck. 

They spend the next hour with Martin dozing against Jon’s chest, until they’re interrupted by a knock. Elias. Martin thinks it’s the first time he’s seen that much politeness from his owner, even if it sets his teeth on edge. 

Jon lunges the second the door opens, baring his teeth at Elias. _“Get. Out.”_

Martin tucks their child against his chest, instinctively shielding her. He should tell Jon to stop before Elias decides to punish them, but the thought of either of their owners near their child makes him sick. They can have this. At least for now. 

Elias finally seems to think better of his plan. Martin vaguely registers him leaving, but he only has eyes for their baby. 

“I’ll always keep you safe, little one,” he whispers, holding her close. “Always.”

She yawns, and he knows the pact has been sealed. Nothing in his life will ever be the same. 

* * *

_30 September 2016_

Sasha wakes up with her face pressed to something warm. Yawning, she snuggles up closer, determined to soak up the last few moments of sleep before her alarm goes off. 

Her pillow lets out a deep, satisfied hum that rumbles through her chest. That’s odd. She’s pretty sure pillows don’t hum. The incongruity is enough to make her open her eyes. She finds herself staring at a cartoonish graphic of Cthulhu with wide, adoring eyes. Tim shifts, and she realizes it’s the back of his t-shirt. 

She rolls over to check her mobile, and it’s nearly time to wake up anyway. She’s about to get out of bed when a thick arm wraps itself around her waist. 

“M’not ready yet....” Tim murmurs sleepily. “Fi’more m’nts…”

“Tim, do you want tea or not? I can make you coffee.”

Tim makes a fuzzy, uncomprehending sound. She elbows him gently. 

_“Coffee,”_ she says insistently. 

“Sounds nice…” he murmurs, and falls back to sleep. Sasha can’t resist ruffling his hair before she climbs out of bed to make coffee. 

By the time she returns with two steaming mugs, Tim’s mostly awake. He accepts his mug with a grateful groan that’s only borderline obscene, taking a long swig. 

“Pretty sure I just sprouted more chest hair,” he says, grimacing. “Thanks, Sash. I needed that.” 

“Wimp.” 

Tim hops into the shower afterward. Sasha pulls up the website for the care home and makes the call, trying to sound as professional as possible. She’s greeted by a sunny-sounded receptionist. 

“Ah, hello. This is Sasha James. I need to speak with Alicja Blackwood, regarding her son.” 

_“Oh.”_ The receptionist’s voice falls noticeably. “I can...I can see if she’ll take your call.”

It’s a strange reaction, as if the receptionist knows what the answer will be before she asks. Sasha tells her to contact Mrs. Blackwood anyway. She can’t imagine the woman won’t want to know about her son. 

She gets put on hold. Tim finishes his shower, then starts puttering around the kitchen. She’s still on hold when he hands her a piece of toast with jam. 

Of course, the receptionist catches her mid-bite. Sasha swallows hastily, washing down her toast with a swig of coffee.

“Miss James? I’m afraid Mrs. Blackwood is not accepting calls at this time.”

Sasha swallows as quickly as she can, washing down her bite with coffee. “But it’s about her son! He’s been missing for—”

“I’m sorry, Miss James. Mrs. Blackwood isn’t available. Have a good day.” 

Click. 

“What the fuck?” she demands, glaring at her silent mobile. 

“What was that all about?” Tim asks, munching his toast. 

Sasha explains the situation with several emphatic gestures. 

“That can’t be right,” Tim says. ”Why wouldn’t she want to hear about Martin?”

“Beats me.” Sasha bites her lip. “Unless it’s not her. What if they’re hiding something?”

“There’s no way to know.” 

“Unless...we go ourselves.” Sasha glances up to meet Tim's eyes. 

“Do you think it’s worth it?” He seems to consider it, and she can see a strange, momentary distance in his eyes. Tim snaps back a second later.

Sasha shrugs. “It’s our best lead. Our _only_ lead, right now.”

“I think you’re right." He admits, and his expression grows more determined. "I suppose we shouldn’t leave Mrs. Blackwood waiting, then.” 

* * *

_2 December 2013_

If Peter thought the selkies were over-protective before the birth, he wasn’t prepared for what happens afterwards. It takes days to even be able to enter the room beyond leaving food, water, and other supplies. Elias sulks the whole time, desperate to see the results of their breeding. Peter would be amused if he weren’t the one dealing with Elias. 

“You know the child’s mine,” Peter says reasonably. “I’ve clearly fucked him the most.” 

Elias scowls. “That doesn’t guarantee anything, Peter.”

“Besides, doesn’t your Eye tell you these things?”

“The Eye has greater concerns than one Flesh beast’s spawn.”

Peter smirks. “But you don’t.” 

Elias doesn’t grace him with a reply. 

Eventually they manage to cajole their way into the basement. The worst of the selkies’ brooding tendencies have subsided by then, though Jon still watches with careful eyes and a barely concealed snarl. 

“Just let us see,” Peter says. “We don’t even know if it’s a boy or not. We haven’t even named it.”

 _“Her_ name is Coral,” Martin says heatedly. 

Peter considers. Coral Lukas. It’s not entirely terrible. 

All Peter can see is a dark head of hair where the baby is nursing. Martin has the blankets tucked around the baby’s frame. Jon is leaning over them both, one arm draped over Martin’s shoulders, the other covering his body. 

“We’re going to see her someday, Martin,” Elias says. “It may as well be now.”

Slowly and carefully, Martin lowers the blanket. Jon stays poised to attack at a moment’s notice, lest they stray too close. Finally they see the baby’s delicate features: the button nose, clearly from Martin; her round cheeks; her tiny chin. Peter finds himself oddly charmed. 

Then he realizes, she has Jon’s eyes. Jon’s pointed chin. Her skin is a delicate red-brown, lighter than Jon’s, but much darker than Martin’s—or Elias and Peter’s, for that matter. 

“How—?” Peter begins. 

Jon’s smile is smug. “The Flesh always finds a way,” he says, as if explaining to a child. 

The baby yawns, curling up against Martin’s chest as Peter and Elias watch in stunned silence. 

“And she’s quite healthy?” Elias asks.

“She’s perfect,” Martin says, leaning down to kiss her tiny face. “And you will do _nothing_ to harm her.”

“We have no intention of harming our investment,” Elias says. 

Jon growls low in his throat. “Our child is not an _investment.”_

“Of course she is. As are _you.”_ Elias retorts. 

Peter can see Jon’s hackles rising, and he intervenes, grabbing Elias by the arm. 

“Well, congratulations on the pup, Jon,” he says, dragging Elias back. “Martin. We’ll be seeing you later.” 

He can tell Elias is about to argue, but Peter knows better than to let that happen, leading him up the stairs and to the relative safety of the main house. 

“So much for the bet,” Peter says cheerfully, just to annoy his husband. “I don’t think either of us saw that coming.”

* * *

_30 September 2016_

They concoct their plan during the long drive to the coast. Sasha drives, while Tim gives directions from his GPS and sings along with the radio. It’s a welcome distraction from everything they’ve seen over the past few days. Still, Sasha can’t help wondering how many horrors they’re driving past, how many quiet hamlets have their own secrets lurking beneath the surface. She’s not sure she’ll be able to take anything for granted after this. 

The care home is a small, charming building, not too far from the sea. Sasha wonders if Martin chose it for the location. If his mother shares his secret. Either way, it’s a pretty little place, the kind of place she wouldn’t mind retiring to. 

She squares her shoulders as she enters the building, doing her best to look official, while Tim follows behind, playing the role of assistant. The receptionist looks up at her with a bored expression. 

“Hello, I’m here from IT Services. Do you mind if I have a look at your computer?”

“I’m a bit busy,” the receptionist says. 

Sasha looks around them. The lobby is empty. There are no files on her desks, no lights lit up on the telephone. She’s about to fire off a retort when Tim interrupts. 

“It’ll only be a minute,” Tim says. “I know you’ve got important work to do, but I promise we’ll be quick.” 

He flashes a winning smile, and the receptionist colors slightly. 

“If it’ll only be a minute,” she demurs, pushing back her chair. She reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“So tell me, how long have you worked here?” Tim asks, keeping the brilliant smile on his face. The receptionist twirls the lock of hair around her finger as she answers. 

Sasha pointedly ignores the flirting and takes her place at the keyboard, closing the Facebook and Instagram tabs so she can access the patient database. She can hear Tim pretending to be utterly fascinated by her anecdotes about staff drama. It only takes her a few moments to find _Blackwood, Alicja_ listed in room 119 _._ Perfect. 

“It looks like the problem is down the hall,” Sasha says, closing the file. 

“Sorry, love. Duty calls.” Tim says with a farewell smile and a wave. The receptionist looks crushed. 

Sasha is grateful when they don’t encounter any staff on the way to Mrs. Blackwood’s room. Fewer distractions, fewer chances to cock this up. She exchanges a look with Tim before they knock. 

“I told you, I don’t want to be bothered today!” an irritated voice calls. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Blackwood, we need to speak with you,” Tim says. “Please?”

The door swings open, revealing a short, stooped woman with a harassed expression. Her auburn curls are going grey, and her eyes are narrowed with disdain, but they can see echoes of Martin in her face. 

“What could you possibly want?” she snaps. 

“It’s about Martin,” Sasha says. 

Mrs. Blackwood’s eyes widen, and she tries to slam the door, but Tim manages to get his foot in the doorway, blocking her. 

“Please, Mrs. Blackwood!” he insists. “We’re his friends. We want to help.”

Sasha isn’t expecting what comes next. 

“What has that stupid slut done now?”

Sasha gapes. Tim’s expression is equally dismayed. Mrs. Blackwood tries to shut the door again, but Tim recovers in time to stop her, pushing his way into the room, and Sasha follows, shutting the door behind them. 

“Don’t call him that,” Sasha says forcefully. 

Mrs. Blackwood sneers. “Why not? That’s what he’s always been. He was stupid to get caught, and stupider to come back expecting sympathy.”

“He was _kidnapped,"_ Tim argues. “They had his skin!”

“He should have hidden himself better. Even the youngest selkie knows what can happen if they’re careless.”

“Did he tell you what they did to him?” Sasha asks. Her hands are clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. 

“Yes, and I don’t _care._ He brought it on himself.” 

“You’re his mother!” Tim shouts. 

She glares at both of them. “I never wanted him! I never wanted any of this! Why can’t you leave me alone?” 

Her tone is growing increasingly desperate, but Sasha can’t let it go. “What about your grandchild?” she demands. 

"She won't be any better than my whore of a son!"

Sasha has to bite down on a scream. She can feel something building in her chest, a power outside of herself that manifests as static between her teeth and on her tongue, begging to spill out. She needs to dig, to learn, to _know._

“Why are you _like_ this?” she demands.

Mrs. Blackwood’s eyes go wide with shock. She begins haltingingly, as if she’s trying to hold back something that won’t be restrained. 

“You damned Unblinking fools,” she snaps. “What happened is none of your business. But you don’t care, do you? You think every story is for you.” 

She swallows, visibly composing herself. “I was young when I met my husband, and full of stupid, romantic ideas about what humans would be like. I knew the stories, but I discounted them—no one would ever take my skin! I wouldn’t _let_ them. I thought my husband was a good man. That he’d never use my nature against me. 

She laughs, low, bitter, and full of teeth. “I was wrong.”

“What happened?” Sasha asks.

“Nothing, for a while. He pretended to be kind, to care for me—perhaps he even did. But no man can resist the lure of a selkie skin. The power it grants them over their spouse. Humans have no such collars, not really." She sounds envious, and Sasha can't blame her. Not from what they've learned. 

"What could be better than a wife you can control and keep by your side forever? My husband was a sailor, you see, away for long periods of time. The Abandoned clung to him like a cologne, pervasive and sharp. It came from his job, for the most part, the ship he travelled on. When he was home, things were warm, safe, even after we conceived my son."

"I carried him for nine long months while his father was away. Born on the foggiest night I've ever seen, the smell of salt and sea and under a crescent moon. I expected his father to be happy. He was, at first. So was I."

"I thought I would enjoy having a baby in the house. I didn't. He was a fussy child, always screaming and squirming and upset. I could never get it right, not even when I gave him the Blessing. Not even when he got his skin." 

“Children are like that!” Tim snaps. “They throw tantrums! They have needs!”

“That doesn’t mean I had to like it," she says, glowering. "I tried to be a good mother. I tried for _years._ I think his father recognised my restless spirit, my urge to run. When Martin was four, my husband turned on me. He took my skin and hid it away. Forced me to stay on the land where he could keep me within reach. I hated him for it. I could feel the sea calling me, with no way to respond. It was agonising, and here was my little boy, still free to change shape, to be what he was meant to."

"My husband finally walked out when Martin was ten. Not even a man yet, and the bastard left us behind. He didn't even give me my skin back. He just discarded me like a piece of trash, and didn't even give back the part that mattered! It took years to find my skin. _Years._ But I succeeded in the end.”

Part of Sasha aches in sympathy. The idea of being trapped like that, forced to endure a loveless marriage for _years_ before being abandoned to raise a child alone, is horrifying. But hearing Mrs. Blackwood speak about Martin with so much disdain fills her with rage. 

"That boy grew more into the man I saw walk out on me. Oh, he tried to be useful. Be _good,_ just like I did _._ But all I could see was the face of the man who stole my skin.” 

“He couldn’t have helped that!” Tim says, glaring. 

Mrs. Blackwood ignores him. “All I wanted was for him to leave me alone. He could have! He could have fled to the sea, or somewhere else. But he refused to abandon me, and that was a worse hell than my husband ever was, worse than my own body betraying me when I was sick. My own skin was no longer a freedom I had longed for. It was a prison."

"...and then he disappeared. And that was that. The greatest gift my own flesh and blood could give me. I didn’t hear from him for years. I thought he’d finally given up on me."

“And then he came back, didn’t he?” Tim says. 

Mrs. Blackwood sighs. “He did. With a sob story and a mate as broken as he was. Crying about his skin being stolen, about a missing child—didn’t I teach him better than that? After all these years, he still didn’t take my lessons to heart. He’s a disappointment even now.”

“Did they say where they were going?” Sasha asks.

She shakes her head. “No, and I didn’t ask. I just wanted to be left in peace. I could tell that mate of his wanted to tear out my throat, but Martin stopped him. He never did have the stomach for violence.”

Sasha can’t help but remember the scene at Elias’s house. Martin might not like violence, but he’s no stranger to it. 

“He doesn’t know it, but I did him a favor,” Mrs. Blackwood continues. “I cut the final string binding him to the land. He’s free now, in a way I can’t be.” 

There it is, the unflinching truth laid bare between them. They’ve learned everything they’re going to learn from Martin’s mother. Even if most of it is useless. 

“Thank you for your time,” Sasha says coldly. 

Mrs. Blackwood glares at them as they leave. Her eyes are the same shade as Martin’s. 

* * *

_15 January 2014_

Jon is exhausted, but in some ways, happier than he’s ever been. Coral is a treasure above any he’s seen, precious and perfect; having her and Martin is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, despite their circumstances. Those moments when it’s just the three of them, curled up in their nest, are priceless. 

But there’s still Peter and Elias to contend with. Jon can barely sleep for fear that they’ll hurt his family. He refuses to let Martin deal with them so soon after the birth, while his body’s still recovering. That means the work of defending their nest and pleasing their owners falls to him. He knows Martin is capable of defending himself, but he shouldn’t _have_ to, not while he’s still feeding their baby.

So Jon protects the nest, and takes punishments for the both of them. He trades himself for the things they need, and he does it gladly, because he _needs_ to provide for them. The stress is getting to him, though. Jon begins compulsively grooming himself, scrubbing his skin raw when he’s allowed to shower, and running his fingers through his hair until it begins to come out in clumps. 

He knows Martin doesn’t like the sacrifices he makes. Neither of them like it. When Jon returns from pleasing their owners, Martin aggressively covers Jon with his scent and the baby’s. It’s one of the few comforts their owners don’t understand well enough to take from them. They’re both too exhausted to make love, but Martin makes a point of leaving bite marks on Jon’s throat, to show their owners who he _really_ belongs to. 

Jon knows it can’t last, but he’s not prepared for how it ends. 

Peter and Elias become oddly accepting of their behavior. The punishments slow to a stop. Jon could almost swear they’re trying to earn his favor. He decides not to question the little kindness he receives. 

In exchange, they expect an increasing amount of intimacy from Jon. Jon can’t bear to be too far from his family, so they take him to the adjoining room. It’s a small price to pay for his family’s security.

One evening, after a particularly vigorous session, Elias offers them a treat: a rich and hearty stew, accompanied by Martin’s favorite tea. It’s been a long time since either of them were offered anything resembling normal food; Elias prefers to keep them fed on chunks of meat and kelp, or occasionally scraps from the kitchen. Jon is so tired and hungry he doesn’t think twice before digging in. 

Martin falls asleep before Jon that night, the baby cradled in his arms. Jon kisses them both on the forehead, grateful to have his family so close, before succumbing himself. He sleeps deeply that night, and doesn’t dream. 

Jon wakes to Martin screaming. It takes him a long moment to make out the words. 

_“Where is she? What have you done with her?”_

Martin is incandescent with rage, though his voice is tinged with fear. He tears apart their nest, the cupboards, anywhere she could conceivably be hidden. 

Elias finally emerges with a triumphant smirk. 

“Looking for something?”

“You know damned well what I’m looking for!” Martin snarls. _“Where. Is. She?”_

“Somewhere safe, I assure you.” 

“She belongs with her parents!” Jon growls.

“All pups must be weaned from after a time,” Elias says serenely. “That is the way of nature, isn’t it?”

Jon is creeping toward Elias, ready to leap for his throat, though he knows he can’t do real damage, when Peter says, “I don’t think you want to do that, pet.” 

Peter lifts the cattle prod warningly. “Things are about to change in this house. We’ve let you run wild for far too long, and that’s going to change _now.”_

“Give her back!” Martin shouts, his eyes wet with angry tears. 

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Do you really want your child to be raised like this? Knowing her parents are both whorish beasts?”

Jon flinches, his hands clenching into fists. 

“Or would you rather she be raised in the lap of luxury, a scion of one of the wealthiest families in Britain?”

Martin’s eyes are filled with hate, but he stays silent. Neither of them can argue that it would be better for her to witness what Peter and Elias do to them. 

“She needs her parents,” Jon insists. “Please, Elias. Please, Peter.” 

Jon will beg them on his knees if he has to. Jon will do _anything_ to see her face, to know she’s safe and unharmed. 

“We don’t owe you anything,” Elias says sharply. 

“Please, we’ll be good, we promise,” Martin pleads. He kneels, head bowed, with his neck submissively exposed. 

“We can’t risk you slipping into your old ways,” Peter says gently. 

“Visitation _may_ be arranged,” Elias says, as if offering an enormous kindness, “Contingent on good behavior. Perhaps on her birthday.”

Martin looks gutted. But they have no power, no bargaining chips, _nothing;_ they are pets, enslaved, and they’ve just had their only treasure taken from them. 

“Please, Elias,” he says brokenly. 

Jon joins in the pleading, assuming the same position as Martin. 

Elias’s eyes glow with pleasure. “That’s a proper pair of pets, isn’t it, Peter?” 

Peter’s grin is wide and cruel. 

“You can begin earning your privileges today.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: childbirth, child kidnapping, mild self harm/trichotillomania, involuntary food restriction, toxic family relationships, victim blaming, slut shaming


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’ve had a lot of these ‘feelings’ lately,” Tim says, carefully neutral. His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead of them._
> 
> _“I know,” she admits, biting her lip. “Something’s...changing. I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like there are doors opening that I didn’t even see before.”_
> 
> _“Is it still you, though? Wanting to know these things?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! Thank you for following us through this harrowing journey. As a treat for our readers, we've posted a fluffy post-fic pwp, [undertow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29363955). This fic focuses on Jon and Martin's life after the events of the story are over. We hope you enjoy. <3
> 
> As always, many thanks to cuttooth for betaing! You're _phenomenal!_

_ 14 August 2010 _

Jon usually doesn’t stray too close to the places humans frequent. His grandmother taught him the risks they pose, the danger of approaching them with his guard down. Today, however, the sun is bright and warm, and he has no desire to move from his sunning spot. That, and his inability to fight down his curiosity. 

A trio of children have spotted the seal lounging on the rocks and are excitedly pointing and cooing over him to their parents. He’s not afraid of the young ones; they’re small and soft and harmless. One of their mothers is absorbed in the paperback novel she’s brought; her wife kneels beside the children, smiling and chattering to them. He can hear her telling the children not to approach him, that wild things are best left untouched. Jon appreciates that. 

Farther down the beach, other families swim and play, or tan themselves on brightly colored towels. Some of the younger ones dig through the sand, collecting shells or building small monuments to their curiosity. There’s a man with a wheeled cart selling ice lollies. 

Jon wants to get closer, to learn more about what they’re all doing, but he knows better. He can’t help feeling a little envious. He’s never really had a family; his mother went missing before he could even receive the Blessing, and all he ever had was his grandmother, who was never really affectionate. But she taught him the lessons that mattered: the laws of the sea, and survival. 

A pair of young men are walking hand in hand along the shore. One of them stoops to pick up a brightly-colored shell, presenting it to his lover. The lover blushes and laughs with joy, tucking the shell into his pocket. They kiss before resuming their walk. Something in the sight makes Jon ache. He wonders what it would be like to have someone like that. To stop being alone. To have a mate, even pups. To have  _ someone _ else to care for. 

But Jon doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s awkward, even among his own kind. Outside of his ruts, he’s rarely taken a lover, and those he has have rarely lasted. He doesn’t know if it’s his upbringing, or the call of the Abandoned that’s made him this way. 

Eventually, the families and couples leave the beach. Dusk approaches, and Jon spots a brightly colored object in the sand. He realizes the mother has left her book. Looking up and down the beach to be sure he won’t be seen, he dives under the water, releasing his hold on his skin as he does. He emerges with his pelt wrapped around his shoulders, sparing another glance in each direction to make sure he’s alone. 

He can just make out the cover in the moonlight: two women embracing. One of them has a thick, colorful scaly tail like a koi fish. The other is an ordinary human.  _ The Song of the Siren.  _ He picks it up with both hands. The pages are creased and dog-eared, as if the owner had read it again and again. 

Part of him thinks he should leave it. If the owner read it this many times, she might come back for it. But he has so few books, and he wants to know what made this one so interesting. 

In the end, he takes it with him to his nest.

* * *

_ 1 October 2016 _

Tim feels strange stepping through the marble entrance columns of the Institute. Knowing what kind of person he’s been working for. Knowing that the things he’s been investigating are painfully real. That it wasn’t just Danny who’s been hurt by them. He’s gotten a glimpse beneath the surface, and he does not like it one bit. 

As soon as they’re done investigating, he intends to take the first plane to Malaysia and drink his memories away, preferably with Sasha, but alone if he has to. He doesn’t plan to give notice. Not to Elias, anyway. 

He takes one look at the memos on his desk before sweeping them into the dustbin. There’s only one case they care about right now. He glances at Sasha. She’s fidgeting, aimlessly tapping the same few keys on her laptop. 

“Something on your mind?” he asks. 

“What did they do with the baby?” she says, eyes distant with thought. He’s not sure she’s talking to him so much as thinking out loud. 

Tim considers. “She definitely wasn’t in the house. Mrs. Blackwood didn’t mention seeing her, either.”

Sasha frowns. “It sounded like they knew where she was. But where would Elias keep a baby?”

“Does he have any family?” Tim asks. “Maybe he pretended it was his.” 

Sasha quickly types something on her laptop, frowning at the screen intently. After a few moments, she sighs, raking a hand through her hair, “None. They’re all dead. Not so much as a cousin or a great-aunt.”

Tim recalls the cold gaze of the man tied beside Elias in the basement. “What about his husband?” 

It takes a moment to dig a surname out of Elias’s personnel record: Lukas. 

“That sounds  _ familiar,”  _ Sasha says, frowning. “Why does it sound familiar?”

Tim scans his memory. He could swear it’s familiar, too, but he can’t decide where he’s heard it. 

“We need tea for this,” he says resolutely. “I’ll go make it.”

“You’re a saint,” Sasha says, eyes instantly glued back to the screen. 

To Tim’s dismay, the milk’s gone off. He decides to venture upstairs to the general staff lounge to borrow a bit. Black tea was never his favorite. He trades the bare minimum amount of conversation with the employees gathered upstairs. It feels strange to hear them worry about morning traffic or dinner plans or whatever they’re going on about. He knows it’s not fair to dismiss the concerns of their lives, but it all feels so small in comparison to the secret he’s keeping. 

He’s waiting on the tea to steep when something shiny on the wall catches his eye. He’s seen the donor plaques a thousand times, but he’s never really read them. This time, though, a name stands out:  _ Nathaniel Lukas. _ He nearly knocks the mugs over in shock, splashing scalding water on his hand and swearing. 

He can barely contain himself long enough to make it downstairs. 

“Sasha! The Lukas family—”

“Are Institute donors!” she finishes excitedly.

He wilts, disappointed to have his thunder stolen, but Sasha’s enthusiasm is contagious. 

“What do you want to bet one of them’s made a statement?” she says. 

They spend the next few hours digging through statements. Somehow Sasha seems to know what she’s looking for, despite the chaos of the archives. Eventually they find a statement from Naomi Herne. 

“Moorland House,” Tim says. It sounds so innocuous. But he has no trouble imagining that Peter Lukas comes from a line of monsters. Not the kind with fangs and claw, but the worst kind: humans who have chosen to be evil. “Do you think they would have taken her there?”

“It makes sense. A big house like that, with servants. A family that private, with that much power and money—they could easily hide a child.”

“It makes more sense than hiring strangers to care for her. And they could have…” Tim swallows. “They could have  _ used  _ that. The knowledge of where she was. If they’d given her away...they would have lost a major bargaining chip.”

Sasha looks ill at the thought. 

“I’m thinking we should pay them a visit,” Tim says thoughtfully. 

Sasha’s eyes harden. “I think we should, too.” 

* * *

_ 1 October 2016 _

The cafe they find is quiet and tucked away. It's rustic, charming, a stark contrast to their life at Peter and Elias' home. It smells of fresh-ground coffee beans, with a hint of lavender and steamed milk. The scones are fresh and flaky, unlike the stale scraps Elias used to give them. The scent alone makes Jon’s mouth water.

Martin returns with a sweet-smelling coffee and a floral tea with traces of vanilla. He sets the coffee in front of Jon and gives a little flourish. "Enjoy, Jon."

Jon takes it, ignoring the clack of Martin's cup as he sets it on the table and takes his seat. Jon is still enjoying the smells, taking in the wafts of vanilla and the hint of caramel that accompanies the chocolate and bitter coffee in his drink. 

"Thank you, moonlight," he murmurs, taking his first sip. The first taste is sweet, but the aftertaste far stronger than Jon anticipates and he flinches back, shocked. He goes for a second sip almost as soon as he can, staring down at the cup in a bit of surprise. 

"You don't like it?" Martin asks, amused, sipping his own with a small smile. “It took you long enough to pick a drink.

Jon had stared at the menu for a full five minutes before ordering, weighing all of the options. There were so many types of coffee, Columbian and Ethiopian and Sumatran, light and medium roasts, not to mention the myriad flavors. His grandmother used to drink plain black coffee when she drank it, but he’d always hated the taste. He couldn’t resist trying again, though, with how fondly Martin had described the drinks from his favorite cafe.

"No, no, I do!” Jon says, not wanting Martin to think his gift is unappreciated. “It's...it's just a little overwhelming, that's all. So many flavors, and the aftertaste..." Jon ducks his head a little, reaching out to link their fingers across the table.

Martin nods, rubbing his thumb over the back of Jon's hand. “It is a bit of an acquired taste. Can I have a sip?” At Jon’s nod, he lifts the cup to his lips, closing his eyes as he savors the taste. "I usually like coffee a lot less sweet than this, but it’s pretty good. Want to trade?” 

Jon shakes his head. “No, I like it.”

Martin smiles, returning to his tea. “Good, because I was in the mood for something floral."  _ Unlike the tea they used to give us _ goes unspoken. The tea they drank was usually cold and over-steeped, sometimes watered-down to last longer. Neither of them wanted to waste good tea on a pet. 

“There’s so many kinds of coffee and tea,” Jon says, looking back at the black chalkboard with its long list of exotic concoctions.

“I promise, you’ll get to try every kind there is,” Martin says, raising their hands to his lips and kissing Jon’s knuckles. 

Jon still isn’t used to having Martin like this. Being able to give and receive affection for  _ themselves,  _ without entertaining voyeurs. Without knowing their bond will be used against them. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says, nuzzling Martin’s hand. 

They drink together in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the sights and sounds of the cafe. Jon finds crowds overwhelming, but the people in the cafe are quiet, and none of them register as a threat. He wonders if this is what other people’s lives are like. Sitting in each other’s company without fear. He hopes so. 

It’s Martin who breaks the silence. 

“Do you think she’ll...remember us?” he asks in a small voice, his eyes fixed on the amber surface of his tea. “Or want us, even?”

Jon swallows hard. He doesn’t know how he’ll react if she doesn’t. If he’ll be able to handle it. 

“There’s a possibility. She was young when they took her, and the Lukases...their patron takes delight in corrupting one’s most precious memories.” He places his hand on Martin’s. “It doesn’t matter if she remembers. Even if she doesn’t remember, we’ll make new memories together. We have the rest of our lives to make it up to her. She belongs with her family.” 

Martin’s eyes grow wet, and his voice cracks. “We missed so  _ much.  _ Her first steps. Her first  _ words.  _ It’s all gone. She should have had her Blessing by now. They took that chance away from us.”

“She’ll still have the Blessing, and know what it's like to have her skin.” He squeezes Martin’s hand tight. “She’ll have her birthright. She’ll know the sea, and her songs. And we’ll be a family again. Forever.”

Martin’s expression grows resolute. “We won’t let them keep her away from us anymore.”

Jon runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling the points of his canines. He’s ready to fight, if that’s what it takes to make his family whole again. 

* * *

_ 2 October 2016 _

They’re both quiet as they load the car for their journey. Sasha is restless. She can feel the energy crackling under her skin, pulling her toward Moorland House. She needs to know, to see how this all ends. Something in her gut tells her they’re going to find answers today. 

Tim drives this time, because she can barely sit still. She fidgets with the radio, switching from station to station until Tim gives her a sharp look. “Sorry,” she says. 

“Do you think they’ll be there?” Tim asks quietly. 

Sasha stares out the window, watching London disappear behind them. “I hope so. In the very least, it might be the next step in finding them. I can  _ feel  _ it.” Sasha doesn’t know if they want to be found, but she has to try. Martin deserves to know he was missed. 

“You’ve had a lot of these ‘feelings’ lately,” Tim says, carefully neutral. His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead of them. 

“I know,” she admits, biting her lip. “Something’s...changing. I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like there are doors opening that I didn’t even see before.” 

“Is it still you, though? Wanting to know these things?”

Sasha taps her fingers against the car door, a nervous staccato. “I...think so?” 

She’s always been this way, she thinks. At least to some degree. She lays a hand on Tim’s hand where it rests on the gear stick. “I’m still _ me.” _

Tim squeezes her hand gently. “I believe you.” 

The landscape gradually changes around them, from cold and sterile buildings to lush green fields. They don’t have exact directions for Moorland House, but they have a general area, and Sasha trusts the rising certainty in her chest as they come closer and closer to their target. They  _ will  _ find what they need. She knows they will. 

“Turn here,” she orders as they approach an unmarked road. 

“What? There’s no sign.”

“Trust me,” she says. 

Tim takes the turn. The pull in her chest grows stronger. Eventually they approach a small village. The sign for a petrol station catches their attention, and they pull in, deciding to refuel before they visit the manor. 

Inside the station, Sasha ducks into the loo, while Tim looks at novelty magnets and coasters. She grabs a few bottles of water before they pay for the petrol, striking up a conversation with the elderly man behind the till. 

“We’re looking for Moorland House,” she says as she hands over her payment. 

The man gives her an empty stare, and a chill runs down her spine. “Do you know it?” she asks.

The man shakes his head. “You don’t want to be going there. That’s not a wise decision.”

“Why not?” Tim asks. 

“Have a lovely drive, miss,” the man says, pointedly handing Sasha her change. 

“I asked you a question!” Tim says. 

The man refuses to say anything further on the subject, ignoring Tim’s prodding. 

“Well, that was fucking ominous,” Tim says once they’re outside. 

“Yep,” Sasha agrees. “Sounds like the Lukases are stellar neighbors.”

It doesn’t matter if the man won’t talk. Sasha can find the way. She can barely contain her anticipation as they continue their journey. Tim takes her directions without questioning them, though he looks at her uneasily from the corner of his eye. A right at the strange little cemetery. Two lefts past a hollowed-out tree. Sasha feels the pull like there’s a cord in her chest, drawing them closer and closer.

“There!” she says loudly, pointing at a half-hidden road. 

“No way there’s anything down there,” Tim says. 

_ “Trust me.”  _

Tim takes the turn, and as he does, a strange silence settles over them. Everything feels oddly hushed, the colors around them worn and faded. There’s a chill Sasha can’t shake, even with the heating turned on. She feels as if they’re thousands of miles from home, cut off from everything they’ve ever known. She gropes for Tim’s hand. Tim flinches away for a moment as if startled to realize she’s still there, before he returns the touch. 

They find themselves on a long, tree-lined drive, and she can finally see the manor house in the distance. They’ve made it. She holds Tim’s hand tightly. 

Along the way, they find another car parked off to the side, half-hidden by the trees. Her heart races. 

“Let’s park here,” she says. Tim pulls in behind the other car, turning off the engine. 

“Do you think it’s them?” Tim asks. 

“I think whoever it is, they didn’t want to be seen.” 

They get out of the car, closing the doors behind them. The sound is unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. Sasha peeks through the windows of the other car. There are several suitcases packed, along with a few grocery bags. Like someone’s going on holiday. Or escaping. 

They hurry down the road, hand in hand to ward off the overbearing silence pressing in from all sides. Part of her is irrationally afraid that once they enter Moorland, they won’t be able to escape. But it’s just a country estate. Even if belongs to the kind of people who associate with Elias Bouchard. 

It’s a relief when they turn a corner and she catches a glimpse of familiar auburn curls. 

“Martin!” she cries. 

Martin whirls around, his eyes wide and frightened. His hair is longer than before, pulled into a messy tail over his shoulder, though it doesn’t cover the mottled scar at the join of his neck and shoulder. His posture is hunched, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. Jon looks smaller in person, his narrow shoulders complemented by a slim frame. His silver-streaked hair spills nearly to his hips. His eyes are so dark they almost look black, wide with alarm. 

Sasha’s heart sinks. Martin is frightened of _them._ Despite his fear, Martin shifts so he’s standing between her and Jon, his posture defensive. Jon grips Martin’s arm tightly. 

“S-sasha?  _ Tim?”  _ Martin asks incredulously. His tone grows more suspicious. “What are you doing here?”

Sasha swallows hard. “I—we found Elias and his husband.” 

Martin’s eyes harden, and his lip curls in a snarl as he pushes Jon farther behind him. 

Jon’s eyes flicker between Tim and Sasha, bright with fear. Sasha has never felt more like a monster.

“We’re not here to hurt you!” Sasha cries. “We know what they did to you.” 

Martin blanches, and Jon wraps around him defensively, reminding her of a cat with its hackles up. 

“Then why did you come?” Jon demands, eyes narrowing. 

Sasha opens her mouth to speak, and comes up short. There are a lot of reasons she’s followed his trail, and she can’t put any of them into words just now. She wants to think she did it all for Martin’s sake, but she can’t be sure. 

“Because we’re sorry,” Tim says softly. “Because you were being hurt right under our noses, and we didn’t realize. I’m _ so, _ so sorry, Martin.”

Martin wavers, looking from Sasha to Tim and back again, his eyes still clearly distrustful. She can’t blame him. 

“We wanted to know that you were okay,” Sasha tells him. “We wanted you to know we missed you.”

“We just want to be left  _ alone,” _ Jon snaps. Tim visibly flinches. 

“You have every right to that,” Sasha says gently. “We just. We wanted you to know. And we wanted to help, if you needed it.”

Martin’s gaze softens. Jon’s doesn’t. He glances impatiently at the gate. 

“We don’t need your help,” Jon says flatly. “Your kind have done enough.” 

“Hold on, Jon. I think they mean it.” Martin says, looking taken aback. “They actually want to  _ help  _ us.” 

“We do,” Tim promises. 

Martin bites his lip. “Elias...he said you never even asked about me.” 

Jon gives them a warning look over Martin’s shoulder. She can tell he’s ready to jump to his mate’s defense at a moment’s notice. 

“That’s not true!” Sasha says. “We were devastated when you left. He told us you’d found another job.”

“We wanted to keep in touch, but no one answered your mobile. You weren’t on social media…” Tim looks down. “We thought you got tired of us...but we should have looked harder.”

Martin’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “I would never have gotten tired of you. You were my friends.”

_ Were.  _ Sasha feels her heart might break into pieces. 

“We...we still care about you,” Tim says. 

_ “Why?”  _ Martin demands. “You’ve seen what I am. You’ve seen what I can do. What they  _ did  _ to me.” His voice breaks on the last sentence. Jon’s arms wrap around him from behind, and he buries his face in Martin’s shoulder, whispering something Sasha can’t hear. 

“None of that was your fault,” Sasha assures him. 

“They fucking deserved what they got,” Tim says harshly. “And more. I don’t think I would have been that merciful.”

Tears slide down Martin’s face, and he collapses in on himself, sobbing. Before Sasha knows what’s happening, he launches himself at her, burying his face in her shoulder. Tim wraps his arms around them both. The places they touch are the only points of warmth in the chill that’s settled over them. Jon watches from a safe distance, clearly poised to intervene if they hurt him.

“I missed you both so much,” Martin sobs. “I—I thought—”

“We missed you, too,” Sasha says gently, carding her fingers through his hair. Tears roll down her face as she imagines him thinking he’d been abandoned. That  _ they’d  _ abandoned him. She can tell Tim’s eyes aren’t dry, either. 

Martin cries for a while longer, sobs wracking his body as Sasha and Tim whisper soothingly to him. Sasha risks a glance up at Jon, worried that they’re intruding. His eyes are damp as he watches them, though she can see he’s keeping an eye on the road, ensuring no one approaches. 

“H-how did you even find us?” Martin asks as his tears begin to dry. 

Tim and Sasha slowly relate the whole story. Finding Peter and Elias. Searching for clues about their disappearance. Visiting Salesa—Jon grins with a flash of sharp teeth as they describe Salesa’s state. 

“So you’re the Archivist now,” Martin says thoughtfully. “That’s...we can use that. They won’t want to interfere with someone that important to the Institute.” 

The look Jon gives her is cautious and considering, like she’s an asset that’s useful, but less than trustworthy. She can’t blame him. 

“The Archivist. You say that like it’s...more than just a job.” Tim says. 

“Much more,” Jon agrees. “But we don’t have time to get into that.”

“How can we help?” Sasha asks.

Martin and Jon exchange a look that says volumes without a word. 

“The Lukases won’t harm the Archivist,” Jon says. “Even a fledgling Archivist. E-elias won’t stand for it.” He grimaces as if the name as left an unpleasant taste in his mouth

Martin squeezes his arm before turning back to Tim and Sasha. “They might be willing to disappear  _ us,  _ but they won’t harm you. As much as they might wish it.” 

“So...you want us to be your backup?” Tim asks. 

“Yeah,” Martin says with a small smile. “I think we do.”

Sasha and Tim won’t let them down. They owe them that much. 

They approach the gate to Moorland House together, armed with the knowledge that none of them are alone. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Martin can barely see through the tears as he strokes Jon's pelt with careful fingers. The fur is every bit as soft as it looks. Gently, he leans down to brush a kiss against one of the scars. He can feel Jon stroking his skin as well, equal parts thrilling and comforting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we say this pretty often, but this chapter is a _lot._ Please see the endnotes for full warnings, but to give you a hint: we find out _exactly_ what happened to Peter and Elias, and how. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting! We adore all the feedback we've gotten on this fic! 
> 
> And as always, thanks to cuttooth for the wonderful job betaing!

_ 2 October 2016 _

Tim does his best to look intimidating as Jon bursts through the door of the mansion, Martin at his heels. Sasha follows them, with Tim bringing up the rear. 

The house has an air of unnerving stillness, as if they were entering a tomb, with a smell of time and dust, though every surface is immaculate. There’s no one to stop them; there’s no one there at all, not a single sign the place is occupied at all. Tim doesn’t trust the place. He bumps his shoulder against Sasha’s, uncomfortable with standing alone in the eerie silence. 

The manor is ostentatiously decorated, every rug and candlestick and tapestry speaking of generations and generations of wealth. The colors are pale and faded as if from sunlight. But there’s no natural light around them, only cold, artificial lamplight. 

Jon and Martin walk determinedly up the staircase, as if they know where they’re going. The stairs creak, unnaturally loud in the hush. Tim can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching them, but he doesn’t see anyone anywhere. Sasha is on edge, too, darting glances from side to side as they ascend, her hands curled into anxious fists. Tim wants to comfort her, but he doesn’t dare break the silence. He takes her hand instead. Sasha grips it tightly. 

They’re halfway down a hallway when Jon frowns. “This isn’t the way,” he says, irritated. 

“It was, last time,” Martin says, looking around them nervously. 

“This place wants to hide her from us,” Jon says. “We won’t let it.” 

Sasha’s face goes curiously blank for a moment, staring straight ahead of her. Suddenly, she points down a smaller hallway.

“That way,” she says, sounding certain. 

“Are you sure?” Jon asks, frowning.

“I  _ know,”  _ she says. 

The path Sasha leads them on is twisted, meandering through the sprawling corridors. He could swear the path is spiraling in on itself, leading them in circles. The rooms are alarmingly identical, all the same muted tones of cream and beige and faded gold. Sometimes he thinks he can see movement in the corner of his eye, but every time he checks, there’s no one there. Sasha looks at the same time he does, and he feels certain that she’s seeing something he can’t. Once, she reaches out a hand, mouth opening as if to speak, before stopping. 

Finally, they find a room that’s different from all the rest. Through the doorway they can see a large chalkboard and a tiny wooden desk. In the corner is a small, chubby-cheeked child, clutching a stuffed animal. Her wide brown eyes fix on Jon and Martin. 

“Daddy? Papa?” she says softly, as if afraid she might be heard. 

Jon and Martin rush to her side, kneeling with open arms. She looks around them anxiously before hesitantly returning their embrace. 

Tim turns away, choosing to stand watch rather than intrude on a private moment. He can hear Martin and Jon murmuring to their daughter in soothing tones, reassuring her that she’s safe and cared for, that they’re here for her. That she doesn’t have to stay with the Lukases anymore. 

When they return, with Coral balanced on Martin’s hip, there are tear streaks on all their faces. She’s clutching a stuffed seal, Tim realizes. The fur is worn thin around the edges.

“Who are they?” Coral asks, suspicion clear on her small face. She looks so much like Jon, though there are traces of Martin in her features, in the curl of her hair. 

“Friends,” Martin promises, reassuring. 

Coral gives Tim an apprehensive look before burying her face in Martin’s shoulder. 

“Is there anything you need from your room?” Jon asks softly.

Coral shakes her head, clinging to Martin. 

Tim and Sasha make sure to keep their distance as they leave. There’s no need to crowd a traumatized child. He doesn’t want to know what sort of upbringing the Lukases would inflict on a child, especially one that wasn’t their own. 

They have an easier time finding their way out. The house seems eager to rid itself of the disturbance they’ve caused. Just before they reach the staircase, they catch a glimpse of an iron-haired woman through an open door. Her features are severe, with deep frown lines and steely gray eyes. She reminds him of the man they saw in Elias’s basement. Jon catches sight of her and bares his teeth. 

“You can have the child,” she says dismissively, waving her hand in a  _ get out _ gesture. “She was never a proper Lukas anyway. The blood tells.”

Martin  _ growls,  _ a sound that makes Tim’s hair stand on end, and Coral clutches him tighter. The woman watches impassively as they leave. Even after she’s out of sight, Tim can’t shake the feeling of eyes watching him. 

Once they’re outside, Tim lets out an audible sigh of relief. He isn’t the only one. They head back to their cars in companionable silence. Tim can see Coral growing bolder the farther they get from the house. At first, she barely peeks away from Martin, but eventually she’s sitting up and staring at everything around them, including Tim and Sasha. Eventually she reaches out a chubby hand and grabs a lock of Sasha’s hair. 

“Coral!” Martin says, trying to sound stern but failing to hide his fondness. 

“It’s all right,” Sasha says, smiling gently. “You can touch if you like.” 

Coral smiles as she runs her hand through Sasha’s long hair. Once she’s done, Jon leans down to kiss her forehead, and she opens her arms, letting Jon pick her up and carry her for a while. Tim’s heart aches at the sight. He wants to murder Elias with his own hands. The idea that he saw them as mere animals is sickening. 

Once they reach their cars, Martin shyly asks if they’re hungry. There’s a little pub in the village with benches outside, next to a small playground with swings and a slide. Neither Tim nor Sasha want to leave them just yet, so they agree, following Jon and Martin to the pub. They get fish and chips, and settle down to eat in the bright sunlight. The locals stay well away from all of them, which is just as well, because Jon and Martin look starkly uncomfortable with attention. 

“Thank you,” Martin says softly. “For finding me. For helping.”

“We didn’t do much,” Tim says.

“It’s enough,” Martin promises. 

For a moment, Tim is reminded of their old life, of sitting around a table on their break, gossiping and sharing snacks. They’ll never have that again. He hopes they can have something else instead: a continued friendship, even at a distance, while Martin settles in with his family. 

“I…” Sasha begins. “I’m curious. How did you manage it? How did you escape?”

Jon turns to Coral. “Do you want to play, love?”

Her face brightens as she looks at the playground. Then she glances nervously at Jon.

“I—you’ll let me?”

Jon’s looks like his heart is breaking in front of them. 

“Yes, love,” he promises. “You can play as much as you like.”

“Come with me, daddy?” she asks, grabbing Martin’s hand. Martin glances at Jon, who nods, before escorting her to the playground. She makes a beeline for the swings, begging Martin to push her. Martin’s face is soft with affection as he indulges her. 

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure,” Jon admits. “I’d been able to hurt them before, but always in small ways—biting, kicking, and the like. The worst I left was toothmarks. But I suppose...I was desperate.  _ We  _ were desperate. What they’d threatened was so heinous, it—” Jon’s face hardens. “We couldn’t let it happen.”

Tim tries to imagine what would frighten Jon so much, after everything they’ve been through. He can’t.

“I suppose...you’ll want my statement, won’t you?” Jon asks Sasha, his expression unreadable.

“If you don’t mind,” Sasha says. “I don’t want to make you relive it if you don’t want to.”

Jon shakes his mind. “Honestly...I think it would be good to share. To have someone else know what happened. To have it on record. Elias had the beginning of my story, and you’ll have the end.”

Sasha smiles, and Tim thinks he sees tears in her eyes. "I'd be honored."

Jon takes a deep breath, and begins to speak. 

* * *

_ 23 September 2016 _

Jon is sobbing, snarling and snapping at every part of Peter he can reach. His owner, cruel and cold, is dragging him by both his collar and hair away from the room with Elias and  _ Martin _ and that awful _ monster of a man. _ Jon knows he’s acting like the feral beast they say he is, but he doesn't  _ care. _ They want to take away his mate, give him away like he means  _ nothing  _ to any of them. 

"He's my mate! Salesa can't have him, can't breed him! I need him,  _ please! _ " Tears of anguish stream down his face. 

The first step hurts as he's dragged down it, rough and quick, and each is another painful reminder of how far away Martin is. How much farther he'll be soon enough, if these monsters have their way. "Nonono… please, please no, please, owner, please no…!"

Jon knows he sounds hysterical, but he can’t hear or smell his mate; the basement is too well sealed for that. He's still fighting, kicking and snarling as Peter attaches him to the wall near his and Martin's nest. As soon as he's bound, Peter backhands him so hard his teeth clack in his skull. It leaves him reeling long enough that he doesn't register Peter's voice for several moments. 

"—took you in from the wild, fed you, housed you, even gave you a mate, and  _ this  _ is how you repay us."

Jon is about to argue that they hardly  _ rescued  _ him when Peter slaps him again.

"Don't talk, whore. All I want to hear is screaming when I punish you."

"But Martin—"

Peter punches him hard in the gut, and all the air leaves him in a rush.

Jon is trying to get back his breath, the adrenaline in his veins, the lack of air all making him fuzzy. The only things he can still think are his mate's name, his concern for him still greater.

"Martin is  _ ours,  _ monster. Ours to do with as we please. Just like you are."

Jon doesn't think he's ever heard Peter so coldly angry, not ever. The kick to Jon's cunt is unexpected, and very hard. Jon yelps, trying to protect himself, trying to curl into a ball as best as he can. Peter slaps him again.

"We will fuck him when we want to fuck him, punish him when he deserves it, and if we want? We'll send him away for training, like any other _ beast." _

"No, please," Jon whines, low and pathetic. His shoulders are hunched, submissive as he can be. It only seems to enrage Peter further. 

Jon knows how much he fucked up, what danger he's put them in. The notion of Martin sent away, gone, then brought back broken and carrying a stranger’s child makes Jon ache.

Peter turns to retrieve something from the cupboard. Jon's heart sinks at the sight of the leather single-tail whip. It's one of Peter's most brutal toys, one they rarely use, because Peter prefers to draw out the torture rather than go straight to making him scream.

Jon knows what's coming. He can never really prepare for the pain of the whip, though, the snap of it in the air when Peter brings it down on his thigh. Agony laces though him, even as Peter brings it down again, striking his thighs, his chest, his arms, even Jon's mound. Peter does not allow Jon to curl up and hide from the pain, to protect his most sensitive areas.

The whipping seems to last forever. Jon's consciousness recoils, leaving his body to deal with the agony as Peter brings the whip down again and again. He floats in a haze of pain and terror until the door opens. 

Tears of relief well in his eyes as Martin stumbles into view, followed closely by Elias. Martin looks pale and shaken, and Salesa's smell is all over him, but he's still there. Martin's eyes widen as he takes in Jon's welts and bruises.

Jon tries to smile, tries to reassure Martin from across the room just how pleased he is to see him. It comes out pained, and lopsided, vanishing when Peter strikes him again. 

It takes a second too long for Jon to realize the whipping has stopped. Peter stares down at him. The weight of Elias' eyes is cruel, heavy and approving. 

"Have you learned your lesson pet?" Elias asks Jon, tugging Martin over to chain them side by side.

"Yes, I'm sorry, please don't hurt him!" Jon sobs. Up close, the scent of Salesa is even stronger. He can make out bruises around his mate's throat. His fists clench in their restraints.

"I don't think you have." Peter says, stepping in to help Elias attach Martin to the wall. His smile is particularly vicious, and Jon knows he's got some new cruel idea in mind.

"Please, I'm sorry, I'll do anything you want!” Jon begs. “Let me make it up to you!"

Jon knows he sounds pathetic, but he doesn't care. Anything is worth saving his mate.

"And how do you intend to do that?" Elias asks, pressing down on Martin's throat, clearly just to hear the little bitten out groan of pain. 

Their owners step back, clearly satisfied, taking in the view of Jon and Martin. 

"Jon..." Martin whispers, and his hand flexes, as if seeking Jon’s. It breaks Jon’s heart that he can’t reach him. 

"I—I'll apologize to Salesa. Let him t-touch me. I'll do whatever you want, please, just tell me!" Tears are flowing down his face so fast he can barely see his owners, but he does his best to hold their gaze.

"We should have neutered you when we had the chance," Peter says derisively.

Jon flinches back, pressing his back further to the wall. New fear rushes through him, digging in deeper. He closes his sore legs, hiding his cunt from sight. He cannot do much else, only choke out a horrified "N-no! I can be good!"

Elias taps his chin, considering. "As enjoyable as I find him intact, he might learn some manners. "

Peter grabs Jon's genitals in a harsh grip, squeezing so hard Jon gasps in pain. "And he doesn't need it for breeding."

"No, no, please! It's my fault!" Martin shouts. "Punish me, please!"

"You'll  _ both  _ be punished." Elias turns his attention to Martin, tone sharp as a knife. "We can take yours, too."

Peter flicks the whip across Martin's chest, leaving a deep welt that makes Jon bite his lip until it bleeds.

Their owners have never been this angry, not even when they tried to escape. They've never threatened to mutilate them like this. 

"Please, Elias, we can be good, I promise."

Elias seems to seriously consider Jon's words, raking his eyes over their bodies one at a time. Jon doesn't dare speculate, shaking with lingering pain.

"You'll have your chance to prove it. I don't think we'll be taking your clits yet. Be grateful for that." Elias pauses, gaze flickering over to Peter's face, than back to Jon's.

"First though, you two will have to...enjoy your remaining time together. You won't be seeing one another for a long time, I can promise you that. Perhaps absence and time will crush that little bond you two have. Or, perhaps, make it only stronger. Either way, a fascinating experiment, my darlings."

Jon sags with relief, even as despair seeps in. At least they won't hurt Martin. Not tonight. As long as they're both whole and alive, there's hope.

"Do you want to eat your mate out first?" Peter directs the question to Martin.

"Y-yes, please let me," Martin says, tears welling in his eyes. Elias unchains him, shoving him onto his knees in front of Jon. 

"I love you," Martin whispers, so softly only a selkie could hear. He kisses Jon's thighs, then his belly. Jon's hands ache to touch him.

He hisses as Martin brushes a kiss against his bruised mound, which draws a smirk from their owners. Martin immediately moves to avoid the tender flesh, licking his slit from top to bottom. Jon moans softly. Pleasure is the last thing he wants to feel when he's so close to losing his mate, but Martin's mouth is too good; he can't help but savor the touch.

Martin's tongue and fingers are so skilled, drawing the pleasure out of him with a well practiced ease. He's also careful to avoid Jon's wounds, giving only pleasure, no pain.

"Martin, I love you," Jon murmurs, low, between pants. Elias and Peter watch, seemingly making commentary. They do that sometimes, taking away time that should be private and making it a spectacle.

"You're doing so well, pet." Elias says, tone strange, both kind and smug. "Giving him this gift before Salesa gets him."

Jon stiffens, his pulse pounding in his ears. 

Martin pulls back.  _ “What?"  _ he demands. 

Peter shoves his face back into Jon's cunt, making Jon gasp in pain as he touches the welts. 

"It's been decided," Peter says smugly. "Jon is going back to Salesa until he learns some manners. He'll get to test out the breeding stand himself. Won't that just be lovely, pet?"

_ No. Nonono. _ Jon begins to hyperventilate the panic hitting him like a wave. He doesn't want Martin to go. Doesn't  _ want _ to have him live through what Jon did. But Jon doesn't want to be forced to go  _ either, _ raped and bred, forced into a mindless need to be pregnant with a child he does not want.

"Martin," he tries to say, but it comes out strangled, terrified beyond belief.

Jon is so paralyzed by fear that he almost misses what happens next. One moment, Martin is kneeling on the floor; the next, he has pinned Peter to the ground, teeth tearing into his flesh as Peter's screams fill the air. 

_ "Martin!" _ Elias shouts. He moves toward him, fist raised, but Jon kicks out sharply, sending him sprawling. 

When Martin looks up, his face is covered in blood, his eyes bright and vicious. He has never looked so beautiful. He tears the key from Peter's hand, unlocking Jon's restraints. Elias snatches Martin's ankle, but Martin stops him with a vicious kick to the face.

As soon as Jon's free, he doesn't hesitate. He dives after Elias, the anger of years bursting out of him. He grabs Elias' leg, digging claws into the soft flesh.

The scream Elias makes is satisfying, a rush of power that Jon has been missing. He drags the man closer, like a trap closing in, and when Elias flails an arm near his mouth, Jon snaps his mouth shut, taking a deep bite. The rush of blood is intoxicating.

None of this should be  _ possible. _ They have their skins. Jon has tried  _ thousands _ of times, and he couldn't even make the first move. It seems the threat of separation was enough to do what they couldn’t on their own: to break the geas, and let them take their freedom. And not just just their freedom, but revenge.  _ Well-earned  _ revenge. 

Peter and Elias will pay for what they have done.  _ All of it. _

Jon intends to savor every moment. He's dreamt of this day, of what they could do to Peter and Elias. Dreamt of blood and rending and the taste of their fear on his tongue as he feeds them to Martin. 

Jon swings at Elias' head, ignoring his struggles. He can hear Martin beating Peter, the snarls and vicious words their former owner struggles. He swallows the meat from Elias' arm and swings at his jaw, intent on knocking him out.

"Let's see how you enjoy being bound to a table and  _ punished." _

* * *

Their skins are so close Martin can  _ feel  _ them. He can see it in Jon too, the excitement, the sheer unholy outrage at just how close they had been, for so long.

The box lies at their feet; it's iron, cold and menacing and buried beneath what now remains of their former owner's bed. The one they’d built their second nest near. The one that they had slept on, been fucked on, bred over and over by Peter and Elias in the hopes that one or both would fall pregnant.

So, so close to their stolen skins for so long. It's _ sickening.  _

His hands shake as he stares down at the lid. Jon covers them with his own. 

"Together?" Jon asks softly. 

"Together," Martin says, swallowing hard. 

Wearing stolen calfskin gloves, they slowly lift the lid. It's surprisingly light—so light he's almost insulted. 

Jon's skin is on top, the mottled fur gleaming in the light. His eyes well with tears as he takes in the pattern of whorls and scars his mate had described. 

"It's beautiful," Martin says softly.

"Thank you," Jon says, reaching down, his expression reverent. His hands shake, and Martin isn't sure if it's with nerves or joy. When Jon picks it up, a strange, beautiful expression comes across his face: like he's seeing the stars for the first time, or hearing the sea's song in his heart. Jon buries his face in his pelt and breaks into sobs, raw and painful and joyous. Completion, at last. After years of pain and struggle and heartache, Jon is fully himself again.

Martin's hands ache to reach out, pull Jon in for a hug. However, the draw of his own coat is too powerful to resist. The weight of his skin in his hands feels right, like something clicking into place. The swirls and whorls and scars that the skin reflects, his time free, before all this look so much lovelier than before. The scent of ocean, of salt and something so fundamentally him that he's been missing rushes back, like the tide into an emptied hole. 

This is what they've been working for. This, their freedom, a life all theirs and driven solely by them. Not by some cruel owners who saw fit to crush them underfoot and treat them as if they were mere animals.

Martin holds the skin tight against his chest. The tears in his eyes overflow, spill down his cheek. All he can think of is the things he's missed, the selkie traditions. Sharing one's pelt with their mate for the first time. The first swaddle. The Blessing. 

They'll be able to do those now. 

Martin imagines himself and Jon wrapped up in one another in so many ways. Settled in a nest untouched by cruel hands, their sweet girl between them, safe and sound and Blessed as they are. As is their right,  _ her  _ right.

Martin trembles as he holds out his skin for Jon. 

"My moonlight, I want you to - to have this," he says softly. "My heart is yours. So is my skin."

The way Jon looks at him, the love and affection overflowing, practically spilling out between them. Jon is as shaky as he is, extending his own skin.

"My lighthouse, my skin is yours. My heart is yours. My life is yours, for as long as you'll have me."

Martin can barely see through the tears as he strokes Jon's pelt with careful fingers. The fur is every bit as soft as it looks. Gently, he leans down to brush a kiss against one of the scars. He can feel Jon stroking his skin as well, equal parts thrilling and comforting.

"I-I never thought this day would come," he admits, choking on the words a little, "I thought—I  _ hoped, _ but I was so afraid we'd be trapped forever."

The rush of _ pleasure-love-connection _ feels so good, so right. Jon with such a key part of Martin, and Martin with that of Jon. 

"They can never understand. They never will. What this means." Martin pulls Jon in for a kiss, their skins pressed together between them. Skin to skin, pelt to pelt. A promise of a future they can now have together.

Jon deepens the kiss, and Martin moans into his mouth. Their pelts are soft and smooth around them, amplifying each touch until he shivers. This is how it should always have been between them, the deepest intimacy any selkie can grant their mate. He scrapes his nails against Jon's pelt, reveling in the hiss it draws from him.

Jon's whimper is breathless, sweet and needy as Martin feels. The way Jon says his name washes over him like a blessing, so Martin repeats the action, spreading his fingers wider this time to reach a larger area. The sensation echoes in him, brushing over the pelt, and Martin can feel the heat build in his cunt.

There's a low growl building in Martin's throat, and it slips out. 

"Mine." He says, soft but possessive. Martin can mean it in a way he hasn't been able to before. They're no longer kept. Jon will never be forced to touch Peter or Elias again. Martin won't be forced. They can be just each other's, for the first time since their mating bites.

Jon moans, tilting his head to expose his throat to Martin's teeth. Martin pins him to the floor with their skins between them. Martin takes the invitation to bite down just hard enough to make Jon writhe underneath him.

"My Martin," Jon whispers, gripping his shoulders.

"My Jon," Martin whispers back, the feeling of Jon writhing underneath him sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. He bites down again and again, kissing each spot, making his claim. His skin aches to feels Jon's teeth in return, the sweet pressure of teeth and slow release of blood like a drug.

"Touch me," Jon begs, and Martin reaches between his thighs, stroking his cock. Jon gasps and bites down on his shoulder. 

"You feel so good," Martin moans, sliding his fingers inside. "So perfect."

Jon's hips jerk, seeking pressure, and Martin rubs his cock with his thumb as his fingers stroke him from the inside.

Jon is usually responsive, but with their skins, he's even more so. The sounds are a reward all their own, sending shocks and heat through Martin's blood.

He can feel the way Jon's body is slowly tensing up, anticipating orgasm. Martin strokes slowly, drawing it out for Jon more, a slow tease leading to a good reward.

The clench of Jon around Martin's fingers is so good as Jon comes, soaking his hand. His cry is almost better, high and needy, nearly incomprehensible. Martin's name is in there, mangled and beautiful.

Martin kisses Jon's throat, a laughing bubbling up. They can do this as many times as they want. They can do this for the rest of their lives. "I love you," he says softly.

The look on Jon's face is shy, utterly smitten as he laughs too, his smile like sunlight. "I love you too, Martin. More than anything."

A rusty little rumble shakes Jon's chest, a purr, and it's not long before Martin slips into it, his mate pulled close as he kisses him over and over.

* * *

The return downstairs to their prisoners feels like a hard-won victory. Jon and Martin present a united front, standing hand in hand before Peter and Elias, with their skins draped over them. Martin had forgotten how much more powerful he feels with his skin, without the constant emptiness that even his mate couldn’t drive away. Now the quiet bliss of their reunion has faded, however, leaving cold anger in its wake. 

Jon presses a kiss to Martin’s pelt where it lies on his shoulder, then breaks away to pace around the table. All Martin can see is a predator defending his mate, and finally getting his chance for revenge. 

Peter and Elias are still gagged, looking between the pair of selkies. Elias’s face is calm, but the scent of fear rolls off of him. Peter looks afraid, but smells less fearful than Elias.

Martin will not have him thinking that they'll make it out of here at all intact. After everything, that is not allowed. Their owners have seen his and Jon's viciousness, seen the violence that selkies have been born with in their blood. But not pushed this far, every chain holding them back gone, utterly broken.

Neither Peter nor Elias ever properly understood the nature of selkies; they never really tried. All they saw were beasts of the Flesh, who knew only how to pretend at being human. Selkies are creatures of choice; land and sea sing in their blood, whether they have the Blessing or not. They carry the potential to be more human than some humans, or more beast than the fiercest animal. 

Peter and Elias wanted them to be animals, and did their damnedest to beat the human out of them.

Well, if that's what they've always wanted, that's what they'll get.

"What would be a fitting punishment for what you've done?" Martin asks. "For imprisoning us, and hurting us, and tearing apart our family?" 

"We could kill them," Jon says, dragging a claw across Peter's throat just to watch him squirm. "But that's  _ really  _ not enough. At most, it would take a few hours, in exchange for  _ years." _

"You're right. And we're not interested in turning the tables—that's disgusting, and they'd probably enjoy it." Martin shudders. 

"We could expose them. Show the world what they really are."

Martin considers, but ultimately discards the idea. "Their wealth will protect them from any real consequences. No, I think we'll deal with this personally. They should be delighted, after all. They wanted us to be beasts."

Jon launches himself at Elias, unflinching, feral. One of his claws rakes against Elias’s cheek, the flesh parting easily. Part of Martin thought it wouldn't. But Elias is just a man, no matter how much he's terrified them both. He bleeds like any other animal.

The glimpse of Elias' eyes, wide with an expected fear, adds flame to the spark in Martin's belly. Marin runs his hand over Elias' cheek, a parody of the rare kindness that he and Jon were granted. The full body shaking only grows worse, and Peter starts to look angrier the closer Martin's claw gets to that cold grey eye.

Martin yanks the gag from Elias’s mouth, then Peter’s. 

"Tell me Elias, how does it feel?” he asks. “To know that it was you who created us? Brought us so low? Don't you _ see?"  _ Martin digs a claw into Elias’s eyelid to emphasize his words, but doesn't cut any deeper.

Elias’s face goes pale, and he stammers, "N-now, Martin, let's not get ahead of ourselves. We can help you. We can give you everything you need. You don't—"

"What we need is revenge," Jon interrupts. "An  _ eye  _ for an  _ eye, _ if you will."

Elias tries to turn away, but Jon seizes him by the hair, holding him with an iron grip as Martin slides the tip of his claw along the inner edge of his lid.

"This is for your own good," Martin tells Elias. "Remember that."

_ "Stop this."  _ Peter cuts in, sharp. It's a tone that once would have made them cower. Not anymore.

"Don't think that you're not next, Peter." Jon snaps, holding Elias' head still despite his squirming.

That's when Martin plunges his claw in, digging into the socket without hesitation.

Elias’s scream is full of fear and shocked pain. He didn't think Martin would really do it. Martin shows him otherwise, taking his time severing the muscles that anchor the eye in its socket. By the end, every breath Elias takes ends with a pained whimper. 

"You'll never hurt someone like this again," Martin says coldly.

When Martin looks up at meet Jon's eyes, he sees something like vindication in those eyes. He wants to kiss Jon, then give him the world. 

First, he turns his attention to Peter. The man is trying his hardest to break free, but he abruptly stills when Jon pulls his hands away from Elias and wraps a hand around Peter's throat instead.

"What do you think you deserve to have removed first, Peter?" Martin asks, chilly, mimicking Peter's cruelest tone, "An eye, like Elias? Or perhaps something else you value more than your sight."

Peter's eyes widen as Martin unfastens his trousers and comprehension sinks in.

"Martin, enough! You don't want to hurt your master. Stop now and I'll forgive you. I'm sure Jon put you up to this."

Martin slaps him with his claws out, scratching deep furrows into his cheeks. "I haven't done anything wrong. You're getting what you deserve."

He fetches a knife and a length of rubber tubing from one of the cabinets, an accessory from one of Elias’s medical scenarios: a tourniquet. He wants Peter to survive what he does to him, just as they have survived. He wraps it tightly around Peter's flesh, savoring the look of terror in his eyes. 

"Martin, please--"

It's too little, too late. Martin makes the first cut.

Peter's scream is as uncomprehending and pained as Elias' was, the melody to the beat that is Elias and his pained whimpers. 

It doesn't take long, and Martin is coldly precise with each cut. By the time Peter's cock is removed, his sounds too have dropped to a low, utterly pathetic whine. 

It's satisfying to hold the severed flesh in his hand, knowing how often Peter used it to hurt him and Jon. How he'll never do such a thing again.

"What do you think, Jon?" Martin asks his mate, "Do you want the honour of cutting off Elias' cock?"

Elias is hyperventilating, thrashing in his bonds. "Jon,  _ please— _ you don't have to do this!"

Jon growls deep in his throat, and Elias stops, though his remaining eye is wide and fearful. 

"I do," he says, taking the knife from Martin with a kiss.

"You have taken years from me. Taken my freedom, my skin. Have raped and tortured and hurt both Martin and I. Tried to separate us. And worst of all, you took our child from us, kept her from the love she deserves and the birthright owed to her. You are a  _ monster  _ who deserves far more than this."

Jon brandishes the knife, a clear promise and threat. Every line of his body sharp and sleek and dangerous.

“Jon, we would never send you away,” Elias says, licking his lips nervously. “You’re far too valuable to us.”

“Shut  _ up,”  _ Jon snarls.

"You  _ know _ we care for you—" Elias tries, squirming in his bonds.

"Speak one more lie and your tongue will be next," Jon hisses out, a viper winding up to attack.

_ "Care?" _ Martin adds, incredulous at the sheer gall of Elias.

"You've only ever cared to own us. To use and abuse us. That is not  _ care _ ."

Jon says, and roughly cuts the clothing free from Elias' hips, exposing his cock. His grip is rough, squeezing it tightly.

"Any last words for your little prick?"

Elias narrows his eyes. "You're nothing but a savage little whore," he sneers. "I should have expected violence from a creature like you."

Jon laughs bitterly. 

"You're the one who made me this way, Elias. Enjoy the consequences."

Elias's screams fill the air, sweeter than music. Martin watches as Jon takes his time with the cuts, licking the blood from his fingers afterwards. When he tires of Elias's sobs, he stuffs the useless flesh in his mouth.

"God, Jon..." Martin murmurs, the sight of the blood on Jon's lips a sort of art. The sight gives him an idea. He turns to Peter, forcing his mouth open and shoving the useless severed cock inside. Let the man get a taste of his own medicine.

He returns to Jon, and nuzzles him, pulling him in for a reassuring kiss. 

"They won't be able to hurt us anymore. Though..." he says, trailing off, to cast a glance towards Elias' legs. "I am rather feeling rather peckish right now. Would a leg or arm be better?"

His last sentence is conversational, light, a mimicry of Peter.

Jon considers, and they eye their former owners. Both are pale and sweating, covered in their own blood. Peter has thick, muscular arms, while Elias has long, lean legs. 

"One of each, I think," he decides, reaching for another tourniquet. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"I would," Martin says, leaning over to kiss Jon lightly. They’re nowhere near done with their owners. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: violence, whipping, eye trauma, castration threats (Jon and Martin), actual castration (Peter and Elias), cannibalism, torture, gang rape threats
> 
> Also, Elias and Peter use the word “clit” to refer to Jon and Martin’s anatomy, which is not the word Jon and Martin use for themselves


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Papa," Coral asks one day. "Will you tell me how you met Daddy?"_
> 
> _Jon hesitates. "Are you sure you want to know, starlight? It's not a very nice story."_
> 
> _She nods gravely, staring at him with wide dark eyes. So young, and already Unblinking to her core. "Yes, Papa. I want to understand."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all the people who have supported us as we wrote this story! We've really enjoyed sharing this story with you. If you enjoyed it, you may also enjoy What Belongs to the Sea (written by twodrunkencelestials and whynotfly), which uses the same rules/lore for selkies. 
> 
> As always, thank to cutooth for your help beta-reading and cheer-leading!
> 
> We have also written a sweet little one-shot pwp about Jon and Martin, set years in the future. You can read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29363955). We are planning at least one more one-shot set in this verse. 
> 
> As always, see endnotes for specific chapter warnings.

_ 2 October 2016  _

The four of them spend a long time outside the pub, eating and talking and drinking in each other’s company. Martin is eager to hear how they’ve been doing in the last few years, though the expression on his face is tinged with wistfulness when he hears about their colleagues. Coral eventually wanders over from the playground, staring intently at Tim until she decides without consulting anyone to sit in his lap. Tim lets out a startled sound, looking at Jon. Jon allows it, though Sasha notices him watching carefully from the corner of his eye. 

“Hello, little lady,” Tim says. Coral doesn’t say anything, just studies him with wide brown eyes. Sasha’s heart melts. 

Eventually, Sasha can tell that their time together is coming to a close. Jon is looking increasingly anxious, shooting worried looks at the villagers that pass by. 

“I’m sure none of us want to have to drive after dark,” Tim says, saving them from having to make an excuse. 

“You’re right,” Martin agrees, putting a hand on Jon’s knee. Jon visibly relaxes.

Sasha writes down their mobile numbers on a scrap of paper, which Martin pockets. She hopes he’ll use it, but she can’t blame him if he doesn’t. In his shoes, she thinks she might be tempted to vanish into the sea, never to be seen again. 

Coral toddles over to hug Sasha, then Tim, before letting Jon pick her up again. Martin has an embrace for each of them as well. Sasha grips him tightly, not entirely wanting to let go. She had forgotten how good his hugs were. 

“We’ll be seeing you,” Martin says as they load into the car. “Stay safe.” 

Sasha has a feeling it’s not just a pleasantry. 

“We’ll try,” she promises. 

Their car slowly vanishes into the distance. Tim’s hand settles on her shoulder. 

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” he asks quietly. 

Sasha bites her lip. “I don’t know if  _ okay  _ is the right word. They’ve been through a lot. But they’re strong, and I think they’ll be...as okay as they can be.”

“They really love each other, don’t they?” Tim says. “I’m glad Martin has someone who cares about him.”

Sasha’s hand finds Tim’s, and she squeezes gently. 

“What are we going to do about Elias and the Institute?” he asks. 

“Hell if I know,” Sasha says with a shrug. “We can worry about it tomorrow.”

Tim nods. “We should probably go, too, shouldn’t we?”

“I’m not ready yet,” Sasha says. “Can we just sit here a while?”

“Yeah.” 

Tim drapes his arm over her shoulder, and she leans against him. They sit together in silence, watching the afternoon fade into dusk. 

* * *

The little cottage Jon and Martin buy with Peter’s money is perfect: small but cozy, situated on an isolated stretch of Scottish coast. Coral loves it. She’s quick to claim one of the bedrooms as hers, even if she doesn’t sleep there. Martin suspects it will be a long time before she’s ready to sleep alone. 

Jon and Martin spend the first few days building their nest, arranging the blankets and pillows until they feel like home. More than a few stuffed animals make their way into the pile. Coral is probably going to wind up spoiled, but neither of them have it in their heart to deny her much of anything. She watches them work with wide, fascinated eyes, before running to make her own small nest in her bedroom. They can tell she’s overjoyed at finally having the freedom to give in to her instincts. They’d seen her bedroom once at the Lukas manor: cold, sterile walls, everything decorated in pale, stiff lace. Decorations made to be seen, not touched. The only hint of personalization had been the one stuffed animal she’d been allowed to keep. 

They decorate their home with odds and ends they find on the beach, brightly colored shells and bits of sea glass. Jon orders every book that catches his eye online, and soon their shelves are full to bursting. Martin makes sure their tea and coffee shelf is stocked with every variety he can think of, as well as flavored syrups. He experiments with different concoctions, which Jon promises are all delicious. Martin is fairly sure he’s biased, but he doesn’t mind. 

Having their family reunited is healing beyond words. Every day away from their former owners makes them stronger. He knows Peter and Elias won’t come after them, but even if they did, they wouldn’t like what they found. Martin isn’t the same person they stole; he’s older, harder, and more vengeful. But more importantly, he has something they don’t, something he’s willing to  _ die  _ for: a family he loves. That’s what makes him dangerous. 

The sea has its own way of healing. The first time Coral sees the blue-green waves, her eyes immediately spark with fascination. Martin knows she’ll love the sea as much as they do; the call is in her blood. The moment they set her on the shore, she tries to dart straight into the surf. They have to grab her by the waist before she can get herself in trouble, calmly showing her how to float and how to swim, how to read the tides and know when it’s safe to go in the water. 

She watches them don their skins with the same bright-eyed interest. She loves to play with them when they’re transformed, stroking their smooth fur, laughing in delight when they bark and yip at her. They explain the Blessing to her, and she nods, filing the information away, as children do. It’s nearly a month before she asks to receive it herself. 

They give her the Blessing in their nest, surrounded by the people and things she loves. They each give her a piece cut from their pelts. The cuts  _ hurt,  _ but that’s part of the sacrifice: pain given in love. Her face is solemn as she takes the flesh they’ve given, a physical token of her inheritance, of the song of the sea that’s always echoed in her heart. She can finally reciprocate the call, chase the waves and bring her own melody to the symphony. 

She spends the night cradled between them as the changes wrack her body. It’s difficult to watch the pain of the transformation, but the Blessing is easier on younger children. They stroke her hair and whisper encouragements, singing lullabies to distract her. In the end, she sports a bright new spotted pelt. She immediately coos at them, a sound somewhere between a kitten and a human infant mewling, and demands first to be picked up, then to be fed, in short order. Martin’s heart melts. She looks almost exactly like Jon, with traces of Martin’s own pattern. 

Just when Martin thinks his life is perfect, Jon tells him he has news. His expression is nervous as he leads Martin onto the balcony, with an unwelcome tightness around his eyes. 

“Martin, I…I have something to tell you,” he says, biting his lip. 

“What is it, love?” he asks, reaching to take Jon’s hands between his. 

Without breaking eye contact, Jon pulls Martin’s hand to his belly, letting it rest there. 

“I...are you—?” 

Jon nods, tears welling in his eyes. Martin falls to his knees and kisses his belly, wrapping his arms around his waist. 

“You’re sure?” Martin asks, staring up into Jon’s eyes. 

“Yes. At first I thought I was just late, but...I ordered a test. Three of them, actually.”

Martin laughs, because it’s such a  _ Jon  _ thing to do, and kisses his belly again. There’s nothing to see yet, but he’s sure it will be beautiful. Jon is always beautiful. 

“How long?” he asks, nuzzling his cheek against Jon’s abdomen. 

Jon’s hand lands in his hair. “About three months, I think.”

Three months. That would mean they were still captive when Jon conceived. Martin doesn’t care who supplied the seed, of course; the baby will be  _ theirs _ and theirs alone.

“I’m so happy, love,” Martin tells him. 

Jon frowns down at him, biting his lip. “I...what if something goes wrong? What if I...mess this up again?”

Martin knows Jon blames himself for the outcome of his first pregnancy. He rises to his feet, wrapping Jon in his arms. “Last time wasn't your fault, Jon. Not even a little bit. If something happens this time, it still won't be. I’ll be here for you. We’ll  _ both  _ be here for you.”

Jon nods, and his smile grows. He kisses Martin, then nuzzles his cheek, breathing in his scent. 

“Let’s go inside,” he says softly. 

They curl up together in their nest as a family, safe and warm, with Coral snoring between them and the sound of the tide outside their window, a gentle call luring them to sleep. 

* * *

A few weeks after Coral receives the Blessing, Martin notices Jon becoming increasingly distracted. He catches his mate staring into the sea more often, with one hand cradling the soft swell of his belly. Martin has never seen anyone look so beautiful.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“Nothing, starlight,” Jon says, smiling softly. “Just...thinking.”

“Care to talk about it?” Martin asks carefully. They’re both still fragile from their ordeal. Sometimes it helps to share. Sometimes...it  _ doesn’t. _ He never wants Jon to hold back, though, even when Martin is having a rough time. He wants Jon to tell him everything. 

Jon bites his lip, humming as he considers. “I wonder if...she’s still out there. My grandmother. We weren’t close, but—she raised me.”

“We could find out,” Martin suggests. 

Jon looks down. “I just...would she even  _ want  _ to see me, if she could?”

“Jon…” Martin can’t resist the urge to wrap his arms around his mate, nuzzling his shoulder. One hand instinctively goes to cradle Jon’s belly. Jon holds his hand gently. 

“You always said she valued strength,” Martin says softly. “I don’t know anyone who’s stronger than you. And if she doesn’t want you...well, that’s  _ her  _ loss.” 

Martin can’t help remembering his own mother, the disgust on her face when they arrived, the coldness in her voice as she dismissed him. The memory makes his hand clench slightly, and Jon strokes it soothingly. He didn’t care when she called him a whore, or when she said he was used-up. But when she tried to say the same about Jon, he’d snapped. She’d quickly shut up after that. It wasn’t the reconciliation he’d hoped for, but there was something freeing about the experience, a sense of closure he’d been missing.

“I won’t be able to travel much longer,” Jon muses. “If I want to see her, we should go soon.” 

“I’m sure Coral will enjoy the trip,” Martin says, kissing Jon’s cheek. 

“You’re sure?” Jon asks.

“This is important. I want to be there for you.”

Jon turns around to kiss him, slow and soft. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, nuzzling Martin’s throat. 

They travel from Scotland to Bournemouth by train, taking a meandering route that hugs the coast as much as possible. Coral is nervous whenever they encounter a crowd, but they hire a private car. She  _ adores  _ the train ride, practically bouncing out of her seat as she points out every cow and sheep and shaggy farm dog she sees. Jon patiently explains everything he knows about farms and dog breeds, and she soaks up the information like a sponge. The sight of them together, Coral with her wide and excited eyes, Jon with his growing belly, is a balm on Martin’s soul. 

They walk around Bournemouth for a while before they go looking for Jon’s grandmother, since Martin and Coral have never seen the town. Coral spots a stuffed seal she can’t bear to leave without, making the excuse that her current seal is lonely, and neither of them can resist. 

“Now I have a Daddy seal and a Papa seal!” she says proudly, holding them up. She brings their faces together for a kiss. “See?”

Martin’s eyes are watering as he scoops her up for a hug, kissing her soft cheek. Jon comes in from behind to embrace them both. 

After they’ve explored the town, they make their way to the beach. Jon explains that his grandmother has a few regular haunts along this part of the coast, which she switches between for security purposes. 

Coral shrieks with delight when she spots a pod of wild seals sunning themselves on the shore. 

“Daddy! Papa! Friends!”

Jon has to stop her from running straight into the middle of the pod, gently explaining the difference between selkies and wild seals.

“They won’t like it if we bother them right now,” he says. “Perhaps later, when we’ve put on our skins.”

“Okay, Papa,” she says, disappointed but understanding. She waves to the seals as they walk away. One of them waves a flipper in return, and she cheers. That one, he suspects, is not an ordinary seal. 

“She has a spot nearby,” Jon says, pointing to a rocky outcropping in the distance. “I spent a lot of time out here as a pup.”

The climb is a little difficult, especially with a child—Coral ends up riding on Martin’s shoulders, to her delight—but they make it to the small cave Jon used to share with his grandmother. As they approach, the cave smells like sea salt and smoked fish. Either they’ve found the right place, or someone else has claimed the dwelling. 

Jon stops, staring at the entrance of the cave with trepidation, and Martin takes his hand. 

“We can do this later, if you want,” Martin says softly. “We don’t have to do it at all if you don’t want to.”

Jon shakes his head. “No. If I don’t do it now, I’ll never manage it.” He hands his bag to Marin. “It’s best if I approach alone. Will you wait for me?”

“Of course, love,” Martin promises. 

Jon disappears inside, while Martin entertains Coral by pointing out the different kinds of shore birds. Coral does her best impression of a seagull call, shrill and piercing. 

“Good job, sweetheart,” Martin says, though his ears are ringing a bit. 

Coral busies herself making a small castle in the sand, while Martin sneaks glances back at the cave entrance. He can just barely hear the sound of voices. There’s no shouting, so it’s clearly going better than Martin’s encounter with his mother. 

A few minutes later, Jon emerges from the cave, his face damp with tears. Behind him is a short, stooped woman, with ink-dark eyes and stern features, and long, silver hair. She looks so much like Jon it’s uncanny. Her expression is calm, but her eyes are red-rimmed. 

“I understand my grandson has found a mate,” she says, eyeing Martin critically. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Martin replies. “I love him very much.” He settles a hand on Coral’s shoulder. “This is our daughter, Coral.”

Her expression softens as she catches sight of Coral.

“You’re my grandmummy?” Coral asks, eyes wide and bright. 

“I’m your great grandmother,” she corrects, kneeling down in front of Coral. “Marilla.” 

“You’re very old,” Coral says seriously. 

For the first time, Jon’s grandmother cracks a smile. 

“I’ve been around for a very long time, child. Since the fourteenth century, if you must know.”

Coral smiles, clearly having no idea how much time that is. Martin’s eyes widen, and he mouths,  _ seriously? _ at Jon. His mate could at least have  _ mentioned  _ his grandmother was an elder. The oldest selkie Martin had met before was maybe two hundred years old, and he’d been a rarity among their kind. 

Marilla turns her gaze on Martin again. 

“My grandson told me some of what you two have been through,” she says. “I’m sorry to hear of it. What they did is heresy. Completely reprehensible.”

Martin fights back tears. All he can do is nod. 

“I can finish them off for you, if you like,” she offers, a steely glint in her eye. Martin recognizes that look from her grandson, and he knows she would gladly rip Peter and Elias’s throats out. Show them what true fear is. 

“Thank you, ma’am, but we dealt with them pretty thoroughly. They won’t be coming for us. Or anyone, ever again. We’ve made sure of that.”

Her lips twitch, the barest hint of a hard smile. “Good.”

Martin can see where Jon got his spine from, his sharpness and his cunning. Jon’s grandmother is cold, but in a very different way from his mother. There’s affection underneath the coolness. Martin’s not sure his mother ever cared for anyone. 

They spend the next few days in Bournemouth with Marilla, both in and out of seal form. She shows Coral how to catch fish, then how to grill them over a fire. Coral is delighted to show off her hunting prowess. When they leave, she promises to visit them, and to be there in time for the birth. Martin wonders if she might make a few  _ visits  _ on her way to Scotland, despite his and Jon’s assurances that they’ve been properly avenged. 

Jon is much more relaxed on the return trip, wearing a gentle smile all the way home.

* * *

_ 28 November 2019 _

Jon loves their little cottage by the sea. Their home isn’t luxurious, or even large; a bedroom for Jon and Martin and a bedroom for the children, with a little kitchen, and a small living area in the middle. New things have been added to their collections, postcards and pictures, and the odd trinket Tim and Sasha have sent them. It’s perfect for them. 

Jon spends his days tending the children, reading, and taking long swims. Occasionally he hunts for the family. Martin makes a small income from his writing—poetry and the odd short story—tapping away at his laptop in the corner of their house. They don’t really need the money; they took enough from their captors to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. But it gives Martin a sense of purpose. Their children are bright, and wild, and every bit as curious as their parents. 

"Papa," Coral asks one day. "Will you tell me how you met Daddy?"

Jon hesitates. "Are you sure you want to know, starlight? It's not a very nice story." 

She nods gravely, staring at him with wide dark eyes. So young, and already Unblinking to her core. "Yes, Papa. I want to understand."

Jon makes them tea, and they settle together in their nest. Coral tucks herself against Jon's side. Her warmth steadies Jon as he chooses his words.

"A long time ago, I was stolen from the sea by two very bad men. Their hearts were empty, so they filled themselves with the pain and misery of others. They kept me locked up alone, far away from the sea."

"Did you try to get out?" Coral asks, biting her lip. 

"Many times, love," he says softly. "But they had my skin, so I couldn't harm them, or return home. Every time I tried to escape, they punished me. You've seen the scars."

"I'm so sorry, Papa," Coral whispers, her eyes bright with tears. 

Jon leans down to kiss her hair. "Thank you, starlight. It was...a very hard time. And when they brought your father, I thought it would be  _ worse. _ It was bad enough being hurt without watching them hurt someone else."

"Your father was...so kind, and  _ strong, _ and beautiful. I never expected to fall in love with someone so quickly, but he was everything I wanted. He kept me going through the worst of it. You're a lot like him, you know."

"You're strong, too, Papa," Coral says, hugging him tightly. 

"Thank you, love." Jon is sure her sweetness comes from Martin. She certainly didn't get it from him. 

"Is that when you escaped?" she asks hopefully.

"No, love. They had his skin as well. We were both trapped for a long time. Long enough that we had you, and they took you away from us."

She bites her lip, looking troubled. "Wh-why did you let them take me away, Papa?" 

Jon holds her tightly as a familiar wave of guilt washes over him. "I'm so sorry, starlight. They stole you from us while we were asleep, and we couldn't follow. Believe me, we came for you as soon as we could."

Coral nods, accepting his explanation, and Jon wishes he could skin Peter and Elias alive for what they've done to his family. It’s taken them years to undo the damage the Lukases inflicted. 

"They had our skins, and they had you, so they had everything that mattered. We wanted to escape, but we were afraid they'd hurt you. So we did everything they asked. Until one night they threatened to separate us, and we couldn't take it anymore. We attacked them, and ran away, and took you with us."

“And then we came here,” she says brightly. “And you had Meri and me, and we all lived happily ever after.” 

Jon’s eyes are watering as he leans down to kiss her forehead. “That’s right, starlight. Happily ever after.”

Martin opens the door with their son balanced on his hip. Meri is wearing his pelt, his body covered in the soft fur of a seal, round and plush. He waves his front flippers in greeting. 

“What are you two up to?” Martin asks, sitting down next to them in the nest. Meri hops over to his sister, butting at her with his head, and she favors him with gentle scratches. 

“Papa was telling me a story,” Coral explains, with the excitement only a child can muster.

“Does it have a happy ending?” Martin asks, leaning against Jon. 

“Yes,” Jon says softly. “Yes, it does.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: mild pregnancy anxiety/self-blame for miscarriage, references to past slut shaming/victim blaming (from Martin’s mum)


End file.
